Broken
by nonsequitur1416
Summary: Sometimes, things break so bad, you just want to let the pieces lie; when they run out of reasons, everything shatters. But when circumstance and fate throw their cards in, they realize their's is a story of second chances and rediscovery after all; in more ways than one. UPDATED! CHAPTER TEN!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: It's been a bleak three years for all of us, and withdrawal isn't good for anyone's skin tone, really. Especially when it concerns Naomily, Christ! Updates, updates, updates tho'! Skins Season Seven on the Ides of March! Rumors, rumors, rumors. Here's to praying they're true. ;)**

** That said, here's my latest piece-its loaded with angst, and while it'll be painful to write, and I can only imagine, read, it's something that's been plaguing my mind for years. My old account is lost, loves. Lost beneath the proverbial sea. I cries. Here's to hoping you're still here with me though!**

** Multi-parter, this one. Bear with me, support this, and I promise updates every few days at the latest. ;) **

** This one's got a soundtrack, I'll post it in a bit as an accompaniment. Alright, this one's dragged on long enough. I won't prolong your agony any longer. Enjoy ;) **

* * *

She was gone_._

_ She sat up then, her blood pulsing hard, and hot, and heavy underneath her skin; matching the frantic rhythm of a heart beating too fast and too syncopated, too early in the morning. _

She was gone_._

_ She had not known fear like this since Emily had stood on the rooftop ledge and looked down, and over, mulling over the futility of her agony, wondering if perhaps death might be the only respite from the ceaseless pain. _

_ She remembered. She could not forget. She cried herself to sleep most nights._

She was gone_. _

_ She nearly leapt from the bed and swiped at a pale blue button down slung over the back of her desk chair. She fumbled with the buttons for a bit, and flung it across her shoulders, barely registering the fact that she wasn't wearing anything underneath at all. _

_ She crossed the room in three long strides and hurled open the doors of her wardrobe, her heart hammering so hard in her chest she feared it might burst. Then, her pulse seemed to still; she could feel its irregular beat inside the skin at her neck. _

_ It was empty._

_ With trembling hands, she leaned over and pulled down the top drawer, pulling with all her weight, watching numbly as it crashed to the floor at her feet. _

_ It was empty._

_ She proceeded to pull down the drawers, her movements impulsive and violent. She spun around and began flinging her wrist watches and bits of jewelry across the bedroom, eyes flitting over the lacquered wood in increasing frustration. _

_ It wasn't here._

She was gone_._

_ The last photograph they ever took—the last one she remembered being genuinely happy in; authentic grins and soundless laughs frozen in cold paper—was on the floor, the glass sliding out from underneath the frame. She stooped and turned it over: the photo was gone._

_She upended the trash bin and found it, rolled into a tight ball, wedged between the wrappings of a Garibaldi she remembered eating before bed last night, and a damp tea bag she remembered Emily using. She smoothed it out, her fingers slipping over the creases and folds. _

_ She shook violently, trembling from head to foot—she nearly ran to the bathroom and drew a shuddering breath. There was only one toothbrush in the cup over the sink. _

_ She couldn't bring herself to look at her reflection in the mirror. There was madness in the eyes that would inevitably stare back at her—she knew this much without seeing it for herself. She located her phone amidst the chaos of her room, and dialed; her breath came in short gasps and hitches, in broken sobs and in hisses. _

The number you have dialed is unavailable at the moment. The phone may be turned off or is—

_ She snapped it shut and ran out the door, down the flight of stairs, through the kitchen and out the threshold. The cement was cold underneath her bare feet; her muscles began to tauten of their own accord as a sharp blast of wind blew against her. She bit back a curse and pulled a switch to her right. _

_ The garage door clunked to life and began sliding, up and back. She slid into the space between door and floor and flipped on the light switch._

Her_ moped was there._

_ She couldn't believe her luck._

_ She made her way over, past boxes of Styrofoam peanuts and empty crates. There was an envelope on the seat, underneath the goggles she'd bought for her all those months ago._

_ She ripped open the top flap and shook the envelope, letting the contents flutter and curl, out and away and onto the floor. Without bending over, she read the first sentence she could make out:_

** Flight Itinerary**

_** British Airways **_

_** Flight GL-107 Bristol to New York (5:45 am – Boarding Time, Gate 19-A)**_

_ She sagged against the wall, her knees giving out beneath her. The sun had risen, bright and high in the morning sky. She staggered out and whirled around wildly, her fingers tangling into her hair. She spun once, twice, her eyes raking the suburban sprawl before her, the sparse forest, the warm asphalt. _

_There were no cars, no bikes, no passersby._

_ No Emily._

_She cried out, a single, harsh bark—an anguished sound an octave higher than a wail, but not quite a scream. She sank to her knees and pulled at the roots of her hair, sagging forward until her forehead touched the cold cement, her features twisted grotesquely into a silent scream, tears streaming down her cheeks. _

_ Her face was flushed with the effort of keeping the inhuman sounds from breaking out. Her lips formed a soundless whimper—a hastily stifled cry._

_The panic rose in the back of her throat, searing raw flesh, inside and out. She retched, doubling over, but nothing came out. _

_She couldn't keep it then, the agony of it all: She screamed, her voice rasping—powerful and painful. _

_ Oh, so painful. _

_ She clawed at the ground, and staggered to her feet, swaying side-to-side precariously. She looked like a mad drunkard, and anyone who might've been peering out from their curtains would draw no other conclusion. _

_She made it onto the street before sinking back down to her knees, the gravel digging painfully into her flesh. _

_ She threw her head back, and wept. _

_ A sound ripped from the back of her throat—a guttural, unnatural noise—so quickly, so frighteningly not her own, she was startled. It came back to her suddenly, of a moment when her world had fallen apart and contracted into nothing but anguish; anguish so real, it was substantial, descending into her chest, contracting and expanding all at once. _

_Her mind drifting back to remnants of the day on the rooftop, of a door slamming shut before her._

"_Emily!" _

_She leaned forward, palms pressing flat against the blacktop. _

"_Emily!" She screamed; a moped drove past her. She knew the horn was directed at her._

"_Emily!"_

She was gone_._

"_EMILY!"_

* * *

**Chapter One**

She thinks I cannot hear her, but I do.

She is awake, but she dreams—if nightmares can be called dreams.

She is a lucid dreamer most nights; the dark circles that color the skin underneath her eyes a purple bruise are nothing short of an indication of her sleepless state. She induces her own nightmares; drawing on her deepest fears and most painful regrets to create a space between her thoughts that is, in and of itself, so agonizingly painful and frightening, it is nothing short of masochism.

She dreams of me.

I know, because she says so.

I hear it, in the soft whimpers and stifled sobs that escape her lips—a slew of incoherent, mumbled words. The words are wet, nothing else to describe the sound that she makes out to be my name. She murmurs it amidst her tears, her shoulders rolling and quivering underneath the blanket that covers us both.

She turns on her side when she thinks I am asleep, her back to me.

I lie awake, listening to her cry herself to asleep, my eyes raking back and forth across the ceiling, my breaths coming in, deep and even—one of mine to every two of hers.

I listen until I cannot hear any longer.

Eventually, her breathing evens out: her shoulders slacken, her head dips forward on her side of the pillow. Her grip on the bed sheets loosens, and she sighs.

I know, then, that she is asleep.

I prop myself up on my elbow and lean over her.

She is beautiful.

Her hair spreads out across the pillow, unpinned. Her lips are parted slightly. Her hand curls over the top of the blanket.

I bite my lip and lean forward further. I tuck my head into the crook of her neck, and shift, pressing my nose against the skin at the curve where her neck becomes her shoulder. I breathe her in. She smells like everything I once dreamt of. Had. Lost.

_ Might be losing._

She smells faintly of bath soap, a scent that can only be vanilla or lavender—I wouldn't know. I would perhaps, if I was Katie. But I am not.

But she smells of coffee, too. Not the sweet, heady scent of the coffee my mother tips into her morning mug, shaking out the packet until the last bits of powder drift across the water. She smells of the coffee I brewed last night, to drink with a slice of the fondant Panda brought over two nights back.

I close my eyes and take deep, calming breaths.

Proximity to her turns my breathing erratic; my heart palpitates in my chest, and tonight, it isn't because I don't want her next to me.

I curl my arm around her waist, an inch above her skin, not touching.

Never touching.

I wonder, sometimes, what it would feel like to hold her close again, to pull her tight against me.

She shifts in her sleep and I hover over her to watch. If she wakes, I will curl back, away from her.

But she doesn't.

I lower myself slowly again. From here, a faint scent reaches me, and it draws me closer.

She smells of Garibaldi, but it isn't the only thing. I look at her, and something inside me stirs. It clenches deep in my gut, and twists my insides, not uncomfortably. I press the tip of my nose to her temple and breathe in, softly.

Last night, she fell asleep momentarily on the wrapper of a Garibaldi—I peeled it off her. She smells of it now, faint and sweet.

But she also smells of me.

I screw my eyes shut, tightly, and turn my head away. I bite my lip.

Tears spring to my eyes, unbidden, and I hastily swipe the back of my hand across them to stop them from spilling.

I miss her.

I press a feather-light kiss to the skin underneath her ear.

I roll off the bed, taking the top sheet with me. I fumble about in the dark until I find her blue button down across the back of her desk chair. I lift it to my nose and close my eyes. I slip it about my shoulders and work my fingers over the hard plastic, catching it on the slips, leaving the last three at the top undone.

Sometimes, I think about leaving early one morning and staying out until ten thirty. She wakes up around eight. It would give her plenty of time to get worked up into a panic. I would pretend to have left, just to spite her.

But I don't.

Because I know the mere thought of it frightens her witless.

Because I know it is the very fabric her nightmares weave.

So, I don't.

I glance at her before opening the door and slipping through it. I close it shut, softly, and sag against it, tipping my head back against the wood.

I don't understand the sudden exhaustion that courses through me.

I have never felt so tired in my entire life.

It is 3:52 in the morning, and I make my way towards the kitchen.

I start the coffee pot and let its slow monotonous drip lull me back to lethargy.

* * *

**Reviews are fully, wholly, welcomed and graciously appreciated! Please take the time to tell me how you feel about this one ;) Cheers to fellow author, Cloverfield, for the tagline on this piece.**

**Follow me on Twitter for snatches and updates of the next chapter! **

**xxGuppy**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

The door opens and swings shut with a little too much haste to be casual.

Footsteps pound the staircase and she nearly catches her foot on the last step in her recklessness. She staggers forward and grasps the marble of the kitchen counter to steady herself. She looks up at me, and our eyes meet. Her shoulders heave; her eyes betray her poorly disguised elation at finding me still here, in _our _kitchen, for yet another day. She visibly sags forward in relief and takes a deep steadying breath.

Her lips curl, hesitatingly, into a smile. It is the light in her eyes, and the way she says my name, that makes my breath hitch in my throat.

"Emily."

I tilt my head, as if to regard her. I lift the mug of coffee to my lips and take a slow sip. It burns my tongue.

"Coffee?" I find myself asking. She nods, the smile slipping off her face as she realizes I have no intention of returning it. She lowers her gaze and shuffles forward, hoisting herself up onto a stool.

Clearly, my height advantage makes it incredibly easy to reach for things too high up. I stand on the tips of my toes and swipe a red mug off the china cabinet. I feel her eyes on me, and I know she finds it amusing, my difficulty reaching for things on this particular cabinet, just because it's higher up than the rest. I do not give her the satisfaction of asking for her help.

I tip the remainder of the morning's brew into her mug and slide it wordlessly across the countertop. She wraps her hands around it, _stealing the warmth,_ she once said. She doesn't take a drink.

I take the coffee pot, my mug, and last night's plates to the sink and turn on the faucet, letting the warm water course through my fingers. I wash up as she takes her coffee. We don't speak; we let the sounds of the morning outside fill the silence between us. A robin flits relatively near the windowsill above the sink and starts a tune.

I hear her chair slide back, metal scraping across the tiles. She is behind me, reaching—she deposits her mug into the soapy depths of the wash basin. I frown, instinctually, when she wraps her arms around my waist and nestles her head into the crook of my neck.

She presses a kiss to my ear, her lips lingering against my skin. I do not repress a shudder. She knows it is not one of desire, but still, she holds on. On another morning, if things had been different, I would've turned in her arms and kissed her. But this is not another morning. What we have today is all we have left, and I do not kiss her.

"Good morning, Ems," she whispers, her eyes sad. "Pass me the filter," I say back, as a reply. She maintains an arm around my waist as she hands it to me, and I murmur an inaudible, "Thank you."

"D'you want to go out later?" she asks, a little too cheerfully, stepping out of her embrace and hoisting herself onto the marble countertop beside me.

"That new Thai restaurant downtown just opened, I could ring it up for reservations? Then we could catch a movie, maybe?"

I remain silent, letting the soap slide from my fingers, wringing out the wash cloth and dipping it into the lather again.

"Or if you don't feel like it, I could drive down, get a pizza and rent a movie? What d'you feel like?" she grins, leaning towards me, her eyes sparkling. "Zombies! Or, sappy, cheesy, American romantic shit," she wrinkles her nose in distaste.

"Audrey Hepburn, yeah? Monster trucks and ninjas? A documentary?" Her suggestions increase in number the longer I stretch out my silence.

"Okay, fine. I'll endure _an hour_ of _'My Best Friend's Wedding,' _but I still say _'Lord of— '"_

"Fuck's sake, Naomi," I nearly shout, exasperated. The coffee pot falls with a loud clatter onto the metal rack. She flinches, and falls silent.

"I'm going out with Bianca and the other girls tonight, alright? I might be home really late, so don't bother waiting up."

I dry my hands onto a towel tied to the oven handle and make for the living room.

"Go order Thai or pizza, or some shit. I'll heat it up in the morning," I continue, not really getting into the conversation at hand. I can't find the stereo remote, and I've been looking for a week.

"Have you seen the remote? Fuck, I can't see it; bloody thing just disappears and—"

I look up at her.

She's crying.

Tears roll silently down her cheeks—she hastily swipes them away with a finger and jumps off the countertop.

She thinks I haven't seen her.

She rearranges her features into a genuine smile as she saunters toward me. My stomach clenches tight and my throat burns. She bends over the couch and rummages behind the cushions. She tosses me the elusive black plastic, and kisses me on the cheek.

"Have fun, love."

Her lips are wet with her tears, and I turn my head away.

I don't want to look at her.

I don't want to see her eyes.

She steps back and runs upstairs. When she comes down fifteen minutes later, her hair's wet and she's wearing a dark red sweater over a pair of leggings. I pull my legs further in on the couch and flip absent mindedly through the channels.

"I'll pick up the laundry, okay?" she attempts a smile; it falters and her lip trembles. I glance at her and shrug nonchalantly.

"Drop by the post office?"

She nods and drapes a thick wool scarf across her neck. "I might get some groceries, too."

The domesticity of the conversation leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I glance at her and her eyes are still wet. I huff, flicking the volume button four bars higher. The sounds of a marine life documentary blare over the speakers. Naomi fidgets in the doorway; she winds the scarf tighter about her neck and slings the loose end over shoulder.

She upends the vase by the doorway and shakes out the spare keys.

"Have fun, Ems."

She smiles and tucks the scarf over her mouth. "Bring me back a pint?" I glance at her, but she's already out the door.

I don't realize I'm crying until a sob escapes my lips, and my tears slip into the corners of my mouth.

I taste salt.

I miss her.

I hear the moped backing out of the garage.

Tonight, if I'm lucky, I won't even remember her name.

* * *

I leave the house at half-past seven.

She still isn't home yet.

She left me a message on my phone; she says she decided to drop by the mall. I want to tell her I couldn't care less, that she can go wherever she wants.

But I don't.

Because I know she's trying.

She's trying, and I don't want her to. And this is the sublime horror of it all— that she has ceased running because I have ceased to give chase. And now, as I turn tail and attempt to flee, she comes after me; her feet pounding double-time to catch up, to make me stay.

I step out of the cab and hand the driver a couple of bills. He bobs his head in thanks and drives away. I turn about, and Bianca's there, grinning so widely, she'd make the Cheshire cat proud. She tosses her pale blond hair over her shoulder and winks.

I smile back, and she saunters toward me. She leans forward and kisses me on both cheeks; only she never actually touches skin. She calls it an air-kiss, the kind models in New York use, she says. I don't question that.

"Emily! My god, it's so good to see you! My, and here I was thinking, _'Damn it all, the wife's just never going to let her go!'" _

Bianca speaks like a socialite from Milan; her accent is vague, half-American and half-Yorkshire. She wears cocktail dresses to almost every occasion, and drinks only martinis. I met her on my last days at an internship in Kent, and hung out with her ever since.

"It's not like she can help it," I find myself saying, lips curling into a grin. She raises a brow at me. I hastily amend my statement, "She can't really tell me where to go, and why not to. She doesn't have that kind of authority over me."

She laughs at that and loops her arm around mine.

"I can't imagine _anyone _trying to control the Fitches, and _Emily Fitch, _of all people. She knows better, then! I'd like to see her try," she chuckles. I flinch. Once upon a time, I might've said something different; I might've tried to defend _her_. Stop making her out to be a clingy, overly-attached girlfriend with an inferiority complex. But this is the picture I've painted of her, and I cannot change it now—not because I can't, but because I choose not to.

Bianca steers me toward the double doors of a nightclub; the music thumping through the speakers, the bass throbbing to the rhythm of my heart. We bypass the long line and stop directly in front of the bouncer. Bianca flashes him a winning smile and slips a card from her purse. He looks it over, and his eyes flick back and forth between her and I.

"Friends?" he growls, his voice deeper than the bass thumping behind him. I wink, "The closest."

He makes a little noise of assent and steps back, opening the doors behind him to let us pass.

My senses are assailed the moment we step in—the murky, heady scent of alcohol and sweat; the flashing, flickering daze of dozens of strobe lights scattered along the dance floor; the humid heat emanating from the bodies around me.

I roll my shoulders in anticipation, and take a deep breath.

Tonight, there is no Emily Fitch.

Tonight, Naomi Campbell will cease to exist.

But, only for tonight.

* * *

I tip my head back and down the last drops of my shot glass. The liquid sears my throat, a flickering flame licking my insides. I feel myself grinning widely, and for no apparent reason, I start laughing. Bianca left me sitting alone by the bar, managing the tab she placed all alone, drop by drop.

There are men around me: men who try their luck, men who take chances. They offer to buy me a drink—I decline every time. The music thumps a steady beat, reverberating through every fiber of my being, my pulse throbbing to match its rhythm. It leaves me breathless.

I want to dance.

I move as if in a daze—I find myself in the middle of the dance floor, bodies pressing close about me. I lose myself in the music, and my eyes close of their own accord. I find myself moving, then, without thought, my mind slipping out of consciousness.

Arms wraps themselves about my waist, someone kisses me beneath my ear.

It is easy to pretend that it is her.

And so, I do.

I tip my head back until it finds purchase, skin on skin. This Being behind me has ceased to exist as an individual—_it _has become a means. Nothing more, nothing less. I do not know who it is.

I do not want to.

Hands roam across my body, and I make no move to stop them.

"Damn fine thing, little red."

_It, _is a boy. Not a man, a boy. Not a day older than I am. The thought makes me smile.

"Like what you see, then?" I smirk, twisting back a little to look at him. I kiss his neck and he pulls me tighter against him. The pressure is reassuring and I thread our fingers together against my stomach.

We dance together, for a while, if grinding against each other to the incomprehensible beat of pentatonic tones—that aren't, cannot be, music; but I do not argue my point—can be called dancing.

I turn in his arms until I face him, and he kisses me, open-mouthed and hard, his hands reaching up to cup my breasts. I guide his hands down, _down, down_, and let him play with the zipper of my jeans.

"Take me home," my voice startles me; it is not an order—it is a whimper, if not a pleading request.

He licks my ear and I shiver.

"Anything you want."

**A/N: Because Angry Emily is Human Emily, and she deserves to be angsty and miserable and hormonal because we all are at the worst of times. Soft, placating Naomi is plausible because Naomi wants to make things work. **

**My sincerest apologies, Naomily Fans. We will spiral ever downward into agony until we hit rock-bottom before we come back up. Bear with me all-throughout, I need to hold your hand as I write this. *Cries* Tell me how you felt about this one, yes? Next chapter is on the rack: its lengthy, shocking! *le gasp* and painful. You excited yet?! I am, hihi.**

**Reviews make me write faster ;) Love you all!**

**xxGuppy**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Four**

The ceiling above me is not my ceiling. The fabric beneath me is neither my bed, nor my couch. The scent about me is unfamiliar.

There is a body next to me, and I do not need to turn my head to see and know that it is not Naomi.

My head throbs, but the pain does not come close to the pressure descending in my chest—twisting my insides, searing up my throat: substantial anxiety. It is difficult to breathe, and forcing air into my lungs is an impossible chore.

I open my eyes a little wider with difficulty, and when my gaze alights on the figure lying prone against me, I jump back instinctually. Quickly, I stand up from the bed and gaze at him, shocked and bewildered beyond thought. I went home with him last night. I wanted it.

I wanted him.

I wanted him, because I wanted _her_.

And yet, my actions—it hits me harder than I thought possible, and it _frightens _me.

Fear closes my throat, and I find myself gasping for air that refuses to enter my lungs.

I have never done this before.

I have never gone away over-night.

My hands are trembling as I fumble around the discarded piles of clothing about the room for my phone. Eventually, I find my jeans, wrinkled and twisted underneath the bed. I hook my fingers underneath the back flap and pull out my phone.

I am not frightened. _I am terrified. _

My hands are shaking so bad, I can barely touch the keys. My heart stops its frantic beating for a millisecond:

_Forty-five missed calls._

_ Twenty-one messages._

Then, I start to cry.

The full force of my anguish is like a dam whose cracks have given way, succumbing to the pressure it cannot contain any longer. I am _breaking_—I cannot stop.

It is so painful.

_So painful. _

There is a hole in my chest; it gapes, raw and expanding. Always expanding.

I slide to my knees and sob, hard, heavy, heart-broken cries. My head is in my hands; my palms pressing hard against my eyelids, applying pressure so great, white spots dance in the darkness before me. I make no attempt to stifle my cries: my agony wakes the Man.

He stirs. I can hear him.

The bed springs squeak and groan as he jumps up, and footsteps thud heavily against the carpeted floor. Soon, he is crouching beside me, a hand on my shoulder. He is shaking.

"What's wrong? What's the matter? What happened? Are you hurt? Are you alright?"

He is frightened, I can hear it in his voice. He is concerned—not so much for me as for himself. Self-preservation is man's primal instinct; it kicks in before all others do. It is human nature, innate and unexplainable.

"Hey," he whispers. "Hey, please. Please, look at me. Please, talk to me. What's wrong?"

It hurts so much, the pain becomes substantial. There is a weight on my chest, pinning me to the floor, rendering me speechless and incapable of thought.

I understand her, then.

I understand.

_Emily, please. It killed me, afterward. What I did—I couldn't take it. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, I couldn't—I couldn't, Emily, I couldn't, I was, I was, Emily, the guilt, I couldn't take the guilt. I was dying. When I realized what I'd done; what I'd done to you—Emily, please._

_ I wanted to die._

I want to die, too.

I am no better than her now—two perfectly wretched halves with no excuses, and nowhere to hide.

He pulls me toward his chest and starts rubbing slow, soothing circles against my back. My tears do not abate, and my sobs, if anything, increase in pitch and frequency.

"Talk to me," he pleads, taking my hands and rubbing them between his, gently.

I look up at him, and for the first time since last night, I get a good look at his face. The only thing I see about him is his eyes.

They are a deep brown—a dark hazel, warm and kind; concerned and frightened: a child's eyes.

_Sophia's eyes._

A gut-wrenching cry tears from the back of my throat and I lurch forward to absorb the convulsions my shoulders inevitable heave, shock after shock, until I am leaning forward, trembling from head to foot.

"I cheated," I whisper, tears slipping into my mouth. "I cheated. I cheated, I cheated, I cheated, I cheated." I grasp his arms and press my face against his chest; he holds me close and presses a chaste kiss to my temple. I cry even harder.

"Oh god, please. I didn't. I didn't want, I didn't, I couldn't, please, _please,_ _please_."

I am incoherence personified; my words halting in the watery manner that children are oft inclined to speak in when they cry too much. I feel so small in his arms.

He tilts my chin up with a finger and smiles gently when I meet his gaze.

"It's okay," he murmurs softly. "People make mistakes, we move past them." I shake my head furiously, "_No, no, no, no, no."_

He rubs little patterns on the back of my neck, "If he loves you, he'll forgive and forget."

"_NO!" _I give a strangled, desperate cry. "You don't just forgive, and you can't just forget. _I cheated," _I twist my fingers through his hair and pull back a little too forcefully; he flinches. "_I cheated. I'm no better than her now, I'm no better."_

I look up at him, and my lip trembles. Bile rises up in my throat: I swallow it back down before I start to retch. "I'm so sorry. _I'm sorry. _I used you. I used you, I'm so, so sorry."

His eyes are kind, but they offer no salvation, even if his words suggest otherwise.

"It's fine. Wouldn't be the first time."

My tears gradually subside; we sit there, my head cradled in his arms as he rubs circles across my back.

"Sometimes, we fuck up. Everybody fucks up. You get fucked up, you fuck someone up. The world's a fucked-up place." He grins against my hair and presses another kiss, just beneath my temple.

"If she forgives you though, don't let her go. It takes a fuck up to forgive a fuck up. If she takes you back, little red, she's a keeper."

We don't talk after that.

I leave his apartment a little after lunch.

He sees me to the door and gives me a thumbs-up as I step into a cab. His smile follows me down the road until I turn a corner.

I'm halfway along the highway before I realize I forgot to ask his name.

* * *

My heart thunders hard against my chest, blunt and frantic. The tables have turned, and they're not to my favor. Not any longer.

I grip the door handle with cold, trembling fingers and push the door open. It creaks a little on its hinges and I find myself flinching at the noise. The flat is deathly quiet; all I hear is the steady thump of my own pulse.

She isn't in the kitchen, so I figure she must be on the porch. She never stays alone in the bedroom if she can help it. I pull open the drawer underneath the kitchen counter and grope around for a box. I shake out a cigarette from the lone packet I find and light it. My fingers tremble so badly I upset the lighter from its perch on the countertop and it falls with a clatter to the floor. She hears me then, I think, because soon the screen door slides back and her voice carries over.

"Emily? Emily, is that you?"

She looks awful. A small, detached portion of me—that is disconnected from all coherent thought—thinks briefly, _she is adorable. _

She's wearing that gray cardigan again; funny how it seems to be a catalyst for all our domestic troubles. She looks like a panda, for all the world: her hair is pulled back into a messy bun, and her eye make-up is smudged. Her brows are crumpled in the middle and her mouth is pulled into a thin, hard line.

But, when she sees me, her eyes light up. A smile involuntarily makes its way to her face and her shoulders relax.

On another morning, if things had been different, I would've run to her arms and kissed her. But this is not another morning. What we have today is all we have left, and as she stands there before me, hesitating despite her obvious need to hold me for reassurance that _no, I haven't left her—_it becomes too much, and soon, a sob rips from me. I cover my mouth with my hand as the tears flow, unhindered.

Her cheeks drain of whatever color previously stained them and she turns a pasty white. She starts toward me, arms held out to steady me.

"Emily? What's wrong, love?"

She rushes forward just as my knees give way and all too soon, I am in her arms. She rocks back on the soles of her feet, supporting both our weight and gently lowers us to the floor. I fight her—I brace my shoulder against her, push her, down and away from me. But she clings to me still and holds me tighter. I defy her warmth and struggle in her arms; all the while, she speaks. I cannot hear her over the pounding in my ears and the white-hot agony burgeoning in my chest. I am a deer caught in headlights. There will be casualties.

"Emily, Emily, Emily," she whispers over and over again. My elbow smashes into her lip and her head tips back. She hisses, very quietly, _"Fuck."_

Blood trickles from the corner of her mouth, a fine line of scarlet.

She clings to me still, and holds me tighter.

"Emily! Fuck's sake, Emily. Stop acting like a fucking mental case and stop thrashing, will you?" she gasps the last word out as my shoulder slams into her chest, knocking the wind out of her. "Ems," there are tears in her eyes now. I don't want to look at her. I want to drag out the inevitable, prolong the agony of confrontation.

I want to keep running away.

"Ems, please. Please. Tell me what the fuck is going on. Please. You're really scaring me, Ems. I'm really fucking terrified. What's happening to you? What happened? Where did you go last night? Why didn't you come home?"

She pulls me tighter to her. I gasp as her lips connect with the skin at my throat. My hands come up instinctually and I find myself holding either side of her neck, just as ready to push her away or to draw her closer at a moment's notice. This is all we have left— impulsivity and perfunctory phrases, fraught and punctuated with broken sighs and breathless whimpers, with tears and with cursing.

Love and hate, in equal measure.

_Perpetually, _I think, bitterly.

"Emily, talk to me. Ems, look at me. Look at me, Emily. Emily. _Fuck's sake, Emily! Fucking look at me!"_

I have never heard her so angry in my entire life, and for a beat, I stop thrashing. I turn my head a fraction of an inch towards her.

Our eyes meet.

A broken sigh escapes my lips. There is a pale flame flickering in those eyes.

She scorches me.

She leans in, closer, and I drop my gaze. For every inch she leans forward, I pull a centimeter's width back. Soon, she is close enough to see the tears that frame my lashes. The tips of our noses touch and her forehead brushes mine.

This close, _I can taste her. _Her warm breath slips into my mouth and I swallow past the lump in my throat.

_"Emily_ Fucking _Fitch."_

I flinch at the quiet venom in her voice. She tilts my chin up with a finger and forces me to look at her.

"I just want to talk," she says, tiredly.  
"I'm sorry," her shoulders slump. "Fucking sorry I raised my fucking voice. I just want to talk. You make it so difficult all the time, Ems. You won't talk to me anymore. I just want to talk." Her hands rub up and down my arms reassuringly, "What happened? Why are you crying? You look a downright bloody mess." Her lip trembles and I realize she's trying to manage a smile.

"Emily, please. _I'm trying."_

I take a deep, watery breath. Like a drowning man breaking the surface, gulping down great lungfuls of cold, salty air. I twist my hands into her cardigan, bunching it up into tight little fists at her stomach. I feel my features hardening; my mouth thinning, my brows creasing together.

_I have every fucking right to get even_, I think, desperately.

No. No, I don't.

Eight months. No excuses. Nowhere to hide.

I look up at her resolutely, defiance burning in my eyes.

"I fucked someone last night."

For all my arrogant candor, my voice catches at the last word. I take another breath and continue, boldly.

"I fucked someone last night, someone I picked up at the night club with Bianca. I was wasted, I fucking felt like getting fucking laid, so I picked up the nearest shag I could get my hands on. Took me home and took care of me, good and proper. Satisfied?"

She wasn't expecting that.

Her hands slide down my arms, slowly, coming to a stop at her lap. She blinks and I hold her gaze, steadily, until she drops it. She looks lost.

Her eyes flit across the room, helplessly. I want to be anywhere but here, next to her, watching her unravel. But I am rooted to my spot, a witness to her disintegration.

_By my own hands, and no less._

Her breath catches in her throat, but she does not cry. Her lips quiver violently but she does not speak. I look down and see her hands, shaking violently in her lap. We sit there on the floor for what seems like a good hour or two, my piercing glare pinning her to the ground.

Suddenly, anger seizes me. A reckless, violent rage. I want her to say something. I want her to scream. I want her to get angry. I want her to throw something. I want her to hit me. I want her to break something. I want her to throw a fucking fit on the fucking floor. I want her to fuck me. I want her to _do _something.

Anything.

_Anything._

I stand up and shove her roughly, hard. "Fucking say something!" I want to get a rise out of her. I push her so hard she bowls over, and it would've been comical if she didn't look so lost. "Fucking say something!" I nearly scream. I grasp her by the shoulders, twisting my hands into her cardigan. I pull her roughly up and slam her against the wall. Her head knocks against the cement. I shake her so hard her head lolls with the motions, "Fucking say something."

She remains mute, her eyes away from me. Her shoulders slacken.

"Fuck you," I say, strength draining from my limbs. I drop my hands until they come to a rest at her hipbones. She's lost so much weight over the past months, something I failed to note in the thirty-two weeks of our cohabitation.

I look at her, and I see.

I see her exhaustion—the dark, purple bruises underneath her eyes; the perpetual crease between her brows; her cheekbones thrown into relief underneath her thin skin.

I see her sorrow—the tear stains down her cheeks; her slack shoulders; her unhealthy pallor.

Then, I see her eyes.

_She is broken. _

_ I broke her._

I stumble back, away from her.

The war I wage is a one-sided affair, a battle inside me—to stay and forgive her endless shortcomings, or destroy whatever is left of her. She surrendered the moment I walked away from her on the rooftop. I know this much. I _never wanted her to fight against me, _I think_._ _There was no point. I wanted you to fight _for _me._

_For us. _

_Fucking remind me why we're still worth fighting for._

_I cannot remember. _

And yet, a conflict, however subdued, will have casualties—I also know this much.

I will never see the light in those eyes ever again, the flickering flame of her passionate existence. I will never see them glint again, in mischief and in humor.

I broke her.

For the rest of my life, the memory of those eyes will haunt me—gaunt and hopeless; lifeless and dull; dark.

I will never forget that I took the light out of them.

I run, up to our room. I don't bother locking the door.

I collapse into a heap on the bed, curling my legs inward, towards my body. I pull her pillow towards me and memorize the scent.

I do not cry, though this is the end.

I do not want to cry.

But I do anyway.

* * *

I wake up to the sound of her breathing, warm and quiet.

I make to sit up, but her arms slide around my waist, gently pushing us back onto the bed. Her lips brush against my temple, her hands sliding underneath my blouse to trace patterns on my stomach.

I cannot think.

I do not understand.

All coherent thought leaves my body as she slides her lips against mine. I think, _this is the first time we've had a proper kiss since—_

When I kissed her at Freddy's shed, it was desperate: clumsy and messy and insincere. Contact for the sake of contact.

The way she kisses me now, she offers something else—salvation.

But I do not want it.

She pulls back, slowly and hovers over me. In the dark, I see the curve of her smile. There is a pale flame in her eyes. I prop myself up on an elbow. She takes my hand and guides it to her cheek, leaning into the contact. She turns her head and kisses my palm, down my wrist.

"Naomi," I whisper brokenly. She presses her lips to mine again, gently. She doesn't pull back.

"Fucking stop," she whispers back against my lips. She gathers me in her arms and pulls me to her in an embrace.

I don't fight her anymore. I don't want to any longer.

I wrap my arms around her neck and climb into her lap. She twists her neck and kisses me beneath my ear.

"You got even," she says, matter-of-factly; her voice is muffled against my skin. "Like you've always wanted. You wanted to make me hurt the way I hurt you." I open my mouth to protest.

_I never meant to cheat._

Her fingers come up and brush against my lips. "But nothing compared to the agony you put me through all these months, Ems. I died every day. And this, this was more of a stalemate than an offense. I figured, since you finally got what you wanted, we'd be okay." Her voice breaks.

"I don't fucking want this fucking war anymore, I don't want you fucking fighting against me. I'm still fighting for us, Ems. Still fighting." She takes my hands in hers and kisses my fingers, softly.

"I figured you still wanted me around, because you haven't left." She looks at me with sad eyes. "But you never really talked to me much lately, about anything, so I wouldn't know."

She presses her forehead to mine, our noses brushing.

"Do you still want me, Emily? D'you still love me?"

Her voice trembles. She is afraid.

She is uncertain.

I realize, with a bitter, piercing pain in the center of my gut, that I am too.

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. She watches as I hesitate, as I come undone. For once in my life, I do not have the answers I so desperately need.

Her eyes ask me the same thing, over and over.

My world begins to fall apart behind my eyes—_I do not know the answer. Pass._

She knows she is losing me.

She shakes her head, slowly at first, then frantically. "No, no, Ems. No, no, Emily, Emily, _Emily, no. No, Emily."_ She is crying now, her face contorting into a painful grimace as she tries to keep herself from sobbing out loud. She grasps my arms and shakes me, forcefully.

"Don't you love me anymore, Emily? You said you'd do anything for us—you said we were _special," _she tears her piercing eyes away from me and turns to stare at the adjacent wall, shoulders quivering underneath thin cotton. She bites her lip, "You said we could do anything. Could get past everything. Don't you love me, Emily?" her voice rises an octave, it is shrill and desperate.

"Don't you fucking love me anymore, Emily? _Emily, look at me. Fucking look at me, Emily!"_

I do not want to cry any longer. I continue to gaze obstinately at the opposite wall.

She screams. I clap my hands over my ears and curl inward, flinching.

_"FUCK'S SAKE, EMILY! CAN'T YOU JUST DROP IT AND FORGIVE ME? CAN'T YOU JUST FORGET AND FUCKING—"_

Her voice catches on the last word, she takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"—_Fucking, love me like you used to. Love me like I love you. What am I to you now, Ems? What am I now? DON'T YOU FUCKING LOVE ME, EMILY? WHY DO WE HURT LIKE THIS? WHY DO WE ALWAYS HAVE TO HURT LIKE THIS?" _

She is breaking.

Breaking.

_I do not know the answers._

"_FUCK'S SAKE, EMILY! ANSWER IT, THEN! DO YOU STILL LO—"_

"_I DON'T FUCKING KNOW!"_

It takes a moment for me to realize that the animalistic scream that tore the air is a sound ripped from my throat. It frightens me shitless and I cringe at myself. I take a deep breath and exhale through my mouth, swallowing the bile that rises in my throat.

"I don't know," I admit, quietly. "I really don't fucking know anymore, Naomi. I used to. I know I did. You were everything to me."

"Past tense," she whispers, tears slipping down her face.

"Past tense," I murmur back, nodding. She cries silently. She bites down on her own knuckles. After awhile, she pulls it out of her mouth and looks back at me.

"But I love you, Ems. I love you. I do."

"Love doesn't solve everything, Naomi. I thought you lived to defy clichés."

"But I love you, Emily."

"Fucking _stop_, Naomi."

"But, Emily. I do. Ems, I—"

"I said shut up, bloody cunt—"

"I do lo—"

"_SHUT THE BLOODY FUCK UP, NAOMI SHUT THE FUCK UP!"_

"_Emily—"_

"_FUCKING STOP TALKING! FUCKING STOP TALKING."_

My fingers twist knots into her hair and I surprise myself—

I meant to pull her away from me, throw her hard against the floor and hear—with a sick, sadistic twinge of pleasure—the sound of her head smacking against our carpet.

Instead, I pull her to me, forehead against mine. And I kiss her.

Hard, and open-mouthed, and painful—teeth and bruises. My tongue curls around hers and I lick her teeth. She shudders in my arms and tries to pull back: she is frightened.

I let her draw away and we sit there; her hands hanging limply at her sides, my hands cupping her face, still. I can feel her eyes on me, but I do not look up at her.

"I don't want to talk," I say, reaching down and pulling her top over head.

"Don't fucking talk to me. I don't want to hear a fucking word. I don't want to talk."

_What am I doing? _I think briefly. My coherent thoughts, the part of my brain responsible for logical thinking, have ceased to function. I know this much to be true, because soon, she is underneath me, skin against skin.

She doesn't make a sound when I kiss her again, roughly.

She is silent when she comes—she has thrown her head back, arching from the bed, thrashing beneath me.

Later, she falls asleep against me. Our legs are tangled underneath the sheet, her arms are about me—one underneath my head, the other around my waist. Her head is on the crook of my neck. Her weight is not uncomfortable, but it is far too familiar to feel natural quite so soon again.

I cannot sleep.

I look up at the digital clock on her desk table.

It is 3:52 in the morning.

* * *

**A/N: This is me, simultaneously updating two of my fanfics in a single go because I have finals to revise for. This was draining, however. Conflicted Emily is agonizing, but Broken Naomi is breaking my heart. Fair warning my dears, we are far from breaking the surface again. Yes, this is but Canto One in nonsequitur's Naomily Inferno. Oh, dear, sweet, Jesus. My revisions. My finals. Emily. Naomi. Season Seven Skins. This is too much, my feels.**

**But, thank you for all those people who left reviews and follows! You guys are the best, hihi. Left you all a little something in yer Inbox!**

**Leave me a little something in the form of a review, go on. Make me happy. Make my little sacrifice worth it, hihi. Chapter Three will be up soon! And let me tell you, it. Is. Shocking. **

**Spoilers and hints? One word: Twitter. Mm-hm. **

**Love you all, I swear. Best readers, ever.**

**xx Guppy**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I have recently come to realize that last chapter's heading is completely off. It should have read CHAPTER THREE. But stupid, unbeta-ed me accidentally put Chapter Four. And since I deleted the edited chapter, I cannot change it now.*sigh* I'm sorry! If you want to proof-read my work though and be my personal beta-reader, please, please just say so. Lord knows I could use one. :))**

**Exams are done! And I passed all my uni proper exams, so WEE. To celebrate, I give you the REAL Chapter Four of Broken. ;) I'm not entirely sure if you stuck around to read the last chapter, because no one said so :( Ah, but nonetheless, I know you're there, hiding behind the eaves—so this is for you. Feel free to leave me a line afterward, as you see fit.**

**P.S. A large serving of pie to you if you can spot the reference to my favorite Finnish tale. ;)**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

She is gone when I wake up.

My mouth tastes vile, and I cannot stand it. My body is heavy and it is difficult to get out of bed. I stagger to the bathroom and flick on the light. I am appalled at the sight staring back at me. It takes a second for me to remember that yes, Emily, that _is _your reflection in the bathroom mirror.

My make-up is smeared, my eyeliner and mascara running down my face in great, black, splotchy smudges. My hair is a veritable rat's nest and my eyes are sunken. I brush my teeth while I take a shower, spitting on the wet tiles at my feet. When I step out, fifteen minutes later, I realize I've forgotten my towel.

There is a little voice in my head that says, quite tentatively, that it would be terrible if I were to find Naomi in the bed room and she happened to look up and see me, stark naked.

I bite my lip and shake my head, throwing open the bathroom door.

_Get the fuck over yourself, Emily Fitch. You've got nothing she hasn't already seen._

* * *

She is retching on the kitchen sink when I walk in.

I stand there uselessly for awhile, brows crumpled in confusion. She hasn't noticed me yet. She doubles over, clutching the stainless steel rim of the sink with white knuckled fingers as she throws up. Then, I come to, with a start.

I whip a towel hanging off the counter and pace over to her.

"Were you drinking?" I ask her sharply, rubbing wide, brisk circles across her back. She shakes her head dubiously and retches again.

There is blood on her fingers.

I look down at her pool of sick, and I realize it is hers.

Ice drips down my stomach, tension coiling my gut into a tight knot. "Naoms?" my voice is thin, brittle. "Naomi—"

She shakes her head again. A few seconds later, her haggard breathing evens out. She takes a deep, shuddering breath and turns on the faucet. She rinses out her mouth, my hand still tracing slow, circuitous circles against her back. She straightens up a moment later and takes another deep breath.

"Naomi?" I look up at her concernedly. She turns to me slowly, as if taking me in. Her face breaks into a languorously delicious smile, "Hi, Ems."

"What the actual fuck, Naoms—"

"Just drop it, okay? I don't know why either."

"You were blowing blood!"

She shrugs nonchalantly, "Figured as much. It's the ulcer."

I frown.

I am worried_. I have every right to be._

"Ulcer? What ulcer, Naomi? You never mentioned a fucking ulcer before!"

"It wasn't that bad," she holds up her hands, placating. "Took meds back in middle school, didn't bother me for years. I guess all the stress these past few months just sort of irritated it a bit. Might've set it off again, you know? But it's normal. It's happened before."

She walks away from me, wiping her hands on the towel I swiped off the counter. She bends down to reach the utility cabinet and lays a heavy pan on the stovetop.

"Can I interest you in some bacon?" she asks casually.

"Fucking no! Fucking no, Naomi!" I walk over to her and grab her by the wrist. "We should go to a doctor! We should have that looked at! We should—"

"Why would you care?" she says quietly, breaking an egg into the skillet. "I thought you wanted me dead so you could be rid of me."

"Don't be fucking stupid," I scoff. "Stop being a pretentious cow and get in the car. I'm taking you to St. Luke's and that's that."

I weave around her and take the stairs back up two steps at a time. I throw on a jacket and a beanie. My keys are in my pocket when I get back to her. I toss her a blue wool sweater, "Come on, Naoms."

She stands there, twisting the fabric in her hands, her eyes boring into me. Eventually, she sighs. "I don't need a doctor, Em. I'm fine."

"You. Are. Not," I nearly spit. I am hissing, and it is unfamiliar to me. "Get in the fucking car."

All the fight drains out of her as she pulls the sweater over her head.

"I wanted bacon for breakfast," she mumbles, brushing past me. "We will," I whisper, following her out.

"Just let me take you to St. Luke's first."

It takes a while before she speaks again, and by then, she is in the car strapping on a seat belt. She looks over at me and gives me half a smile, her eyes twinkling mischievously, "So the Snow Queen _does _have a heart."

"Don't push it, Kay. Gretl hasn't started the sled up yet," I grumble half-heartedly, twisting the key in the ignition.

* * *

She waves the manila folder in front of my face cheerfully.

I snatch it from her, irritated. "I _know _what benign means, Naomi. I'm not—"

"Worry-wart," she sticks her tongue out at me. "You're far too eager to be rid of me, Ems." She's grinning, but the smile never touches her eyes.

"'Fraid I'll be sticking around awhile."

I roll my eyes, "God-awful luck I've got."

We sit across each other at the hospital cafeteria. She spoons a great, big helping of muesli into her mouth, chuckling. I pull out a thin sheet of paper wedged between the receipt and the prescription: her diagnosis. I turn it over in my fingers and frown concernedly, "Peptic ulcer? Isn't that bad, though?"

She shrugs light-heartedly. "Not really, I mean, it's not a malignant tumor. I used to think it was just acid."

My face must've been a sight to see, because she reaches over and lays her hand on top of mine. I flinch, but I don't pull away from her. She notices it and draws her hand back.

"It's alright, Ems. I'm fine."

I heave a great sigh, inwardly.

"I know."

"Thanks, though. For taking me here."

I look up at that, and our eyes meet—cobalt grey against a hazel thicket. "Yeah," I manage, thickly.

"Ulcer's rather romantic, don't you think?" she asks brightly, licking cream off her spoon.

My brows crumple together, "What are you going on about, Naomi?"

"You're talking to me, aren't you? You care right now, don't you? I mean, fuck knows if you really mean it, but it's important to me." She smiles, then, and I look away.

"I'll be right back," I say abruptly, standing up. I shove my chair back and sling my purse over my shoulder. She opens her mouth to say something else, but I'm already walking away from her.

* * *

"Emily—"

"You're supposed to open it immediately, yeah? Says so, right…There."

"Right. I know."

"Get to it then."

She pinches the Styrofoam tab and flicks open the take-out. She gives a little sigh of deep contentment. She moans, leaning forward to inhale the scent wafting from it. "Bacon," she breathes. She takes a particularly thick strip between thumb and forefinger and bites into it.

Her lips break into a cheeky grin, "I love you, Emily."

I lick the grease off my pinky and pick up the ketchup bottle.

"I know."

* * *

It is late when we get back.

We stopped by the video rental and took out a box of garden surprise. I turned up the stereo as loud as I could bear it all-throughout the ride back, never giving her an opening. She walks ahead of me, balancing the pizza box in one hand as she fumbles around in her pocket for the house key.

"Where did I—"

I produce it from my own pocket and she beams. "Thank god, I thought I left it at hospital."

The lock slides back and clicks open. She deposits everything on the kitchen counter and turns to me expectantly. I raise a brow at her, "What?"

"Fancy a drink?"

"No."

"Right," she rummages through the paper bag. "Anyway, I've got…"

She trails off, holding a stack of movies in one hand. I pull up a stool and watch her.

_"'Attack of the Killer Eggplant,'" _she frowns. "Weird. I don't remember taking that out."

I snort, "Were you in the mood for some masochistic-ly clichéd visual torture? Fuck," I mutter, appalled. I turn the case over in my fingers. "It's still in black and white."

"Really? What about—er—_'Somewhere in Time?'"_

"No, thanks."

_"'Terminator, the Trilogy?'"_

I shrug, "Haven't seen that one yet." She smiles and makes her way over to the living room. "Great, get the pizza will you?"

I follow her out of the kitchen, box in one hand, two cans of Cali in the other. Suddenly, she pauses next to the couch and staggers forward. Her back is to me, so I can't see her face, but I don't need to see it to know it's contorted in pain. She raises a hand and rests it against her stomach, twisting the fabric tightly in her fist.

"Naomi?" I ask, worried. I put down the food and rush over to her. I rest a hand against her back, "What's wrong?"

"Sorry," she manages, thickly. "It just spa—can I lie down for a bit?"

I nod and settle her down gently on the couch. She tucks her legs in and lies, facedown. She pulls a cushion against her stomach and closes her eyes.

"Is it hurting again?"

"Yeah," she admits quietly. "Shit." Her features twist again as a particularly painful contraction rolls through her gut, I imagine. My own stomach flips as I watch her. _I did this to you, _I think. _If everything was alright, you wouldn't hurt._

"I'm sorry," I find myself saying, my voice trembling. She cracks open an eye. "Nothing to be sorry for, hun. 'S'not your fault."

_It is._

She takes my hand and holds it against her cheek. "Just stay for a bit," she hums tiredly. I push back a strand of hair from her face and tuck it behind an ear. It is easy, I think. This particular blend of domesticity and concern, of pretending we're normal again, of pretending we're alright again. _Of pretending you are the center of my life again. _

But I know in the morning, things will be the same again.

She falls asleep a few minutes later and I softly tip-toe back through the kitchen. I pull myself up on the stool and lean my head against my arms.

I fall asleep to the soft whisper of her breath against fabric.

* * *

**A/N: This one is marginally shorter than I naturally intended, but I hope what it lacks in length, it makes for in substance. Now that I've got a bit more time in my hands, I'll update increasingly quicker. Expect an update soon this week, too! So keep those reviews coming, and I'll update all the quicker, I promise. :))**

**Thank you for reading ;) **

**X Guppy**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews last chapter, particularly those from two anonymous reviewers, s2pidm5, and phoenixdyer! I literally tripped over my own feet in my haste to get this up for all of you. I apologize if I've left you hanging; my course work is up to the throat, really. And to those of you reading in the shadows, thank you for quietly supporting this fic, too. ;) Though I'd love to hear from you all the same! **

**Now, it has come to my attention that I have become a sado-masochist (not in **_**that **_**way, you perverts.) in the sense that I've been doling out far too much angst without Naomily-love to balance it all out. So, I hope this evens things out, at least a bit. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Five**

"It'll be _fab, _sweetie. I've got friends from France coming over, it's gonna be _a-m-azing," _Bianca trills. I hum, noncommittally. "You can bring Naomi too, if you like," she adds as an afterthought.

I look over to Naomi, sitting out on the porch ledge, legs drawn up. "Maybe," I mumble back. "Listen, Bia—"

"Shit, Jason's here," she hissed. "Call you later, hun!"

"I—" she hangs up before I can get a word in edgewise. I sigh and snap my phone shut.

"Naomi," I call, leaning out of the window to get her attention. Her head snaps up—she's reading Salinger. _Again._—and she bites her lip.

"Yeah?"

"That was Bianca. Fancy coming with?" Today, I am civil. Civil, level-headed, and _friendly._ She seems to notice this because she jumps immediately from her perch and saunters over.

"You're asking _me?" _she sounds incredulous, waiting for the proverbial punch-line. It doesn't come.

"The fuck if you don't want to," I begin, irritated, but she cuts me off. "No, no," she says quickly. "It's just—I'd love to. Really."

I look her over. She smiles under my scrutiny and I bite back an audible sigh, "Do something with your hair?" She winds a strand between her fingers and frowns, "What's wrong with it?"

"It looks like a fucking rat's nest, that's what," I snap. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" she snarls. "You can't go looking like shit," I bite back.

"Maybe I won't then," she folds her arms complacently, calmly. I swallow the onslaught of lash-backs lined up on the tip of my tongue. _Emily, fuck it. Play nice, bitch. _

"Naomi, just—"

"I get it."

She relaxes, all tension dissolving from her shoulders. "I'll curl it later or something." She walks past me and disappears down the cellar. "Now, if you'll excuse me. Seeing as we're not doing anything 'till later tonight, kindly leave me to my own devices."

"What're you doing?" I call after her.

"Looking for my easel," she shouts back.

_Easel?_

* * *

Her hair's swept up, tied back with a bandanna to keep it out of her face. She's wearing a faded blue jumper, the straps slipping off her shoulders. She doesn't notice this though, because she's staring too intently at the canvas before her, her tongue between her teeth.

"What d'you think?"

"It looks like a fire truck ran through a strawberry patch and killed Ronald McDonald in the process," I say, truthfully. She frowns, "Shit, you're right." She dips her brush into paint again and starts stroking rich, purple hues over the indiscriminate flurry of red. "Sorry," I amend hastily, "Ronald McDonald, _and _Grimace."

"Haven't seen the bloke on air since 2003," she looks over and raises a brow. "Still love him," I sniffed. She chuckles and steps back to admire her work. "I think it's rather nice," she says proudly. "Naturally. You're innately prejudiced as it's _yours," _I say, dryly. Though it _does _look rather well; it's got a French modern-art-esque vibe to it. A veritable lovechild of Lars and Picasso.

Bianca would probably buy it for a couple hundred quid if I told her it was a vintage straight of the MOMA in Fifth Street, New York.

"Christ, I bet Bia would bid quid on it," I fiddled with a tube of acrylic. She smirks, "So it's nice enough to cash out now, is it?"

"Pretentious bitch. OI!"

My face is streaked with purpling-ochre. She tips her head back and laughs, long and hard. "You'll pay for that one," I growl, fighting back a grin. I swipe my fingers through an open tub of lime-green acrylic and lunge forward, but she side-steps quickly and squeals when she lands another streak on my skin, just above my left eyebrow.

"Fuck!" I cry, and then we're running. She takes off around the house, and I give chase, hot on her heels. I manage to land huge globs on her immaculate white shirt and three across her neck. I cannot remember how long it's been, hearing her laughter and mine ring loud and sincere.

My foot catches on the edge of the armrest and I lunge forward to gain balance. I snag the back of her jumper and she collapses backward, shrieking with laughter. We grapple on the floor, fighting for dominance, until I end up on top of her, my wrists held tight in her hands. She is breathless, and I find I am too.

For all the wrong reasons.

We stare at each other wordlessly for a good thirty seconds, at least. She leans forward when I do, and our lips brush, chastely. The contact shatters my self-control, and I find I do not care.

Soon, her mouth opens hot against mine and my tongue slips in to tangle with hers. She sits up and hoists me over to the couch, her lips still on mine, pausing only to pull my top off. I reach down and snap open the lower buttons on her jumper, sliding them down and off her legs. She moans when I slip my fingers underneath her knickers.

"Ems—" she gasps loudly when I enter her, two fingers deep—she is already _so _wet. I wonder how long she's needed this, _needed me,_ and I shudder at the thought. She throws her head back and whimpers. I pull her back down, lips finding purchase on her neck. She grinds against me, and I cannot think any longer. She pulls back and kisses me again, hard, our teeth knocking together. She unclasps my bra and chucks it across the room before leaning down and taking a nipple between her teeth.

"Jesus," I moan, my breath coming in increasingly short bursts. I curl my fingers inside her, and she comes undone. She strains forward, her shoulder nicking my lower lip. "Christ, Emily. Shit, _shit. Ems," _she whispers, over and over in my ear.

"I love you," she says quietly, kissing the skin underneath my jaw. I close my eyes, trying in vain to stem the flow of tears threatening to slip. When I open them again, she's staring back at me. She kisses me, softly, on my mouth, once, twice, a hundred times. She slips down, then, kissing down my neck, my chest, my stomach. I watch her, trembling as she settles between my thighs. She's kneeling on the carpet, her gaze locked with mine, daring me to look away. She lifts my leg and drapes it over her shoulder. She turns her head and kisses inside my thigh. My eyes flutter shut at the onslaught of sensations burning underneath my skin.

I nearly cry out when she kisses me, _inside. _She pushes my other leg a little further away and pins it down with a hand. I feel so vulnerable, exposed to her like this, but it is not remotely uncomfortable. We go back to it, as easy as breathing.

"What d'you want, Ems?" she whispers against my all-too willing skin. I tangle my fingers into her hair and she kisses inside me again. My eyes roll back in my head and I make no attempt to stifle the moan that slips past my lips.

"D'you want me to stop?" she asks quietly, "D'you want this?"

I open my eyes and find her staring intently at me, sadly, hesitantly. I lean down and stroke a finger down her cheek, gently.

"I want you," I admit softly. She turns her head and kisses my fingers. _"Only you,"_ I whisper, my voice breaking; I know then, from the way she looks at me, that she understands everything I cannot say, all the words I cannot convey. She nods once, "I know."

Her tongue slips inside me, then, and my head snaps back, eyes rolling back into my head.

"Oh, fuck," I groan. She slides two, three fingers inside me and I need, _need, _to hold her, grasp her by the shoulders as I begin to uncoil into release. She flicks her tongue against my walls, coming in deeper than I thought possible. I thread knots into her hair, and push against her so hard she sways on her knees. She steadies herself between my legs and settles into a frantic pace. Soon, soon, _soon, I am coming undone. _

_ "Naomi, Naoms," _her name on my lips is a sound she takes pride in, takes delight in. She adores it, loves me for it. "Oh, Christ, Christ, _Christ,"_ I gasp breathlessly. "Naomi, Naoms, I—" her tongue curls inside me, once, twice—then—"_Jesus, fuck, Naomi," _I am crying.

Crying.

I do not understand, cannot, for the life of me, comprehend why.

But, I am crying.

She gets up, wraps her arms around me and holds me against her, my shoulders heaving with the force of my tears. I hold her tightly, fingers digging into her sides. "I love you," she whispers against my hair, "I love you."

I press my face against her neck, my words wet with tears against her skin.

"I love you, too."

She stiffens, and my admission startles me. But, she reaches down, tilts my chin upward with a finger, forces me to look at her. "Say that again, to my face."

Her eyes are hard, beseeching. Pained.

Mine brim over again, until her figure before me is blurry. I hesitate, but I know, as soon as the words leave my lips, that nothing in the world could be truer. "I love you. I love you, too. Naomi, I—" her lip trembles, and she laughs, a short, harsh bark.

"And you mean it, too," she murmurs, incredulous. She kisses me again, winds her fingers through my hair, settles me against her lap.

"You mean it, too."

* * *

**A/N: Next chapter's done as well! Drop me a line, tell me your thoughts about this one, and I'll have it up faster than you can say, 'Garibaldi!' Oh, and I've also updated Bastille! Just I case you were following that, too. **

**Love you all!**

**X Guppy**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews, favorites and follows you left last chapter. Made my day, you did. Yes, you did. To my loyal reader, and faithful reviewer s2pidm5, as promised, I have updated for you. OnlyNaomily, yes! Respite from all the agony. And to the three anons who left reviews, specifically Jordan and his heartwarming lengthy review, my sincerest thanks :) **

**Okay, now, to the actual pre-fic note: I NEED YOU TO READ THIS FIRST. Here's the thing, the fic now picks up the pace and delves into the literary canon aspect of the Skins series. And by literary canon aspect, I mean the Skins Novel written by Ali Cronin. Now, if you've read that, you'd know what happened last summer to our flightly redhead. And if you didn't, I'm afraid you will now. :( **

**Also. This chapter has a special two-word summary: **_**Campbell Fistfight.**_

**Now that I've got your attention, enjoy Chapter Six. Last chapter was a breather—thank you for patronizing the interlude. We now resume our downward spiral; **_**but, **_**we'll scrape the bottom very soon. **

**I hope.**

* * *

**Chapter Six**

"Wheatgrass doesn't smell like anything," she argues plaintively. "And even if it did, I wouldn't let it near my hair."

"Right," I nod, smirking. "Because you'd much rather have Merlot, or Red Grapes, or Chardonnay."

"On my hair? Fuck, yes." I tug on her hair perhaps a little too forcefully because she cries out, pained. "Emily!"

"Sorry!"

"You don't sound remotely sorry at all," she grumbles. "Sorry," I cooed, playfully. "Big baby." I lather more shampoo into her hair, taking care to wipe the suds off her brow. She settles back against my chest, her head resting against my shoulder as I ran the wash cloth down her arms, across her stomach. "What about oats?" I ask carefully, wringing out the fabric.

"On, what? Bath soap?"

"Mm."

"Don't they do that already?"

"Yeah? Oh, yeah."

She turns in my arms and kisses me, long and languorously, her lips lingering on mine long after they've stopped moving. "Cheeky," I bite my lip and nick her ear with my teeth. I laugh when she cries out. "Sorry, accident."

She kisses down my neck and my eyes close instinctively. She slips into my lap and then I have to work carefully not to sink too far into the water lest I swallow a mouthful of bathwater every time I open my mouth to moan.

_What is this? _I think. _What the fuck am I doing?_

_I'm not fighting this anymore._

_I don't want to._

_Let me feel it._

_Let me fucking feel it._

I couldn't fucking care less if this was a temporary respite, all that mattered was that I could feel this, feel her, and enjoy it.

I love her.

I still do.

I think.

* * *

She grasps my hand a little tighter than necessary.

"Breathe, would you? It's just Bia."

"Yeah, Bia and the Bitches."

"You don't know that."

"I know a lot of things, Ems. I know a lot of things."

I glance at her, askance. "Won't contest that." I tug on her hand and steer us through the steel double doors of the club, the heavy bass thumping heavily in my ears, throbbing deep in my chest.

"Emily!" Bianca sees us filtering through the crowd and gracefully shoves gyrating, grinding silhouettes away from her in her haste to get to us. She loops her arm through mine and pulls me in to kiss my cheek. "I'm _so _glad you're here! Playing party hostess?" she bites her cheek and rolls her eyes, "_Nightmare." _She tosses her hair over a shoulder and gives me a once-over.

"I like the whole dark, chic, Euro-_femme fatale _look, doll. You're absolutely _killing _it," she says, quite grandiloquently, gesturing wildly at my strapless black number. I don't like it, though. I look too much like Katie. "Thanks," I say politely. She glances behind her, gaze raking the crowd before her. She turns back to me and winks, "You remember Danny, right? Top-shelf tosser? Completely shallow, manically obsessed with tits? Dated your sister once?"

I nod, then cringe. "Jesus, Bia. Please don't tell me you've got somethi—"

She flinches back, "Ew, God, no. He's seen you, that's all. He's got that predatory cunting look on his face, so steer clear, yeah? Heads-up, that's all." I nod halfheartedly. She grins cheekily and tugs me toward the booths lining the back of the DJ's sound board.

"So, anyway, you once said you know someone who can mix—"I glance back behind me, suddenly remembering I came with Naomi. "Shit," I hiss quietly. Bianca looks down at me, brow furrowed. "Something up, Ems?"

"I forgot I brought Naomi." I crane my head around, swiveling my head to catch a glimpse of her in the crowd. "Oh, shit." She claps a hand to her mouth, "Oh Christ, I'm sorry. I didn't even _greet _her—"

"'S'not your fault," I snap my phone open and send her a short text.

**With Bianca. Booths or dancing. Where u?**

"Anyway," I mumble, distractedly. "You were saying something—?" Bianca's back is to me: she turns in place, craning her head, eyes raking the crowd. "Shit," she hisses. "Where the fuck is—" her eyes light up, then, and she grasps my hand between hers briefly. "Hold on. I'll be right back, Emmy." She shoves past patrons and disappears, leaving me standing alone, next to the DJ.

* * *

"Fancy another?"

"No, thanks. D'you have a tonic?"

He shakes his head and I nod dismissively. I swipe another flute of champagne from his tray though, for good measure, and knock it back quickly. The waiter looks at me, scandalized. I raise a brow at him and give him a gentle push back.

"_Thank you," _I slur, irritated. "I'll call you back when I figure out how to tell you how to live _your _bloody life." My head feels strangely disconnected from my body—it is light and unfettered, I could float away if I wanted to. Naomi hadn't replied to any of my three previous texts and the very fact that she could _choose _to ignore me, incensed me. I stumbled out of the booth and staggered to the dance floor. I swayed side-to-side precariously, my arms swinging restlessly. An unlit spliff dangled uselessly from my mouth. I tossed my head, matching the monotonous bass in the background beat for beat. A spark flickered into existence inches from my face and I staggered back, startled. A voice chuckled darkly to my left, "My altruistic act for the week."

My spliff was smoking—I took it in my fingers and turned it over. I looked up and a pair of brilliantly crimson eyes twinkled mischievously back at me. I bit back a curse.

_Shit, Bianca. Fuck your guest list._

"Anna."

"_Bon soir, ma cherie. _'Ow long eet 'as been, no?"

My mind flew back to a time last summer, when I went to France with my family. Katie had disappeared during a trip to Paris, and I spent all day scouring the city for her. I ended up with incredibly bad company, and a night that ended with my first innocent venture into the disturbingly sketchy realm that is voyeurism. I pushed the thought away abruptly. "Yeah," I grunt, noncommittally. Her lips lift at the corners, "Not 'appy to see me, I presume. Shame, I 'onestly thought ze locals would be more…Accommodating. Especially to old friends." She takes the spliff from me with long, white fingers and takes a deep pull. She blows the smoke into my face.

"They are," I grumble, coughing. "But not this leettle bird, no?" her brow lifts. She smirks a little wider, "Per'aps, someone is 'ere? A special someone, watching your footsteps, _oui?" _ I find myself frowning, "My girlfriend." She nods knowingly, "Of course, of course." She rolls the joint in her mouth thoughtfully, "Is she the jealous type?"

I take a moment to hesitate.

It is all the time she needs.

She slides a hand around my waist, her fingers slipping dangerously low. She steps closer, her other hand caging my wrist. Her lips are beneath my ear, breath ghosting across the skin there. I shiver involuntarily when she speaks, her words warm and damp against my overheated skin.

"Can't I buy you a drink, _ma cherie? _What she doesn't know won't 'urt 'er, if that's what you're afraid of. What're you so afraid of, leettle bird?" she breathes. She presses a kiss against my ear.

"You." The words slip out before I can stop them. "There's no reason to sound so ashamed," she says softly, reprovingly. I close my eyes and she presses our bodies closer together. She lifts my arms and slides them around her waist.

"Beautiful, leettle bird. You are breathtaking tonight."

This is wrong: the right hold with a wrong pair of hands.

I make to pull away from her, but the air before me shimmers, then—

Anna flies back, away from me, spinning violently. She hits the ground, hard, her hands coming up to cradle her presumably broken nose.

_"Fucking keep your hands away from her, you filthy slut," _I turn about and I see Naomi, fist pulled back, eyes flashing. A dangerous rage has clouded her faculties of rational thinking. She takes a step forward, drops to her knees and snaps her fist back. She brings it thundering down on Anna's nose over and over again.

There is blood on her knuckles, and it is not her own. A crowd refuses to disperse around them, refuses to break them apart, closes in around them instead, hemming them in. Anna pushes her off and slaps her hard about the face with the back of her hand. Naomi reels backward, hand coming up instinctively. It is the opening Anna has been anticipating—she lifts her stiletto heel and brings it down with a resounding, sickening crunch on Naomi's wrist twice and twists. Her scream pierces the air, and it brings me back to my senses.

_"Keep away from her!" _I cry. I wrench Naomi away from her, glaring. Anna's gaze flickers between us, humiliated rage perforating her features, contorting her face into a sick, twisted grimace. "Certainly the jealous type, then, no, _darleeng_?" she swipes the back of her hand along her nose and glances at the blood she finds there. "Shame, would've invited 'er out, as friends."

"Fucking chance of that, you tosser," Naomi hisses, pained, cradling her wrist. "You are 'olding her back," Anna bites back at her, nodding in my direction. "Emily wouldn't object. Wouldn't you, Emily? Emily was thees close to having the time of 'er life." Anna pinches a space between thumb and forefinger to emphasize her point. She sways on her feet unsteadily, and I know then that she is inexplicably drunk.

"Weren't you, Emily?" her eyes glint, and my stomach drops.

_No._

_ No, no, no._

"If you take out the stick shoved up your arse long enough, _cherie, _you might find yourself enjoying too." She slides a finger down Naomi's cheek. Naomi turns her head away sharply, eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. "Take your sick, freak sideshow elsewhere, bitch. I'm not interested, and neither is she."

"Funny," Anna smiles beatifically. "I was always under the eempression Emily found my shows entertaining. You told me you liked them, Emily. Were you lying to me too?" Anna turns to me and cocks her head to the side, curious. Naomi's brows draw together in the middle, creasing in confusion.

"What are you talking about?"

There is a vulnerability to her voice that breaks me. I snap forward, "Get the hell out of here—"

"Naughty, naughty, your leettle puppy, _cherie," _she wags a finger reproachfully at Naomi.

"'Er fine taste in _realism_ ees so profound, it ees most moving. One would almost say, eet is—" her mouth curls cruelly. "—An act of voyeurism, wouldn't you, Emily? Danielle was sorry she couldn't come, by the way. Though she sends you 'er warmest regards, and an invitation. Though not quite to the club, _cherie, _if you get me." She winks then, a lascivious look in her eyes. My breath catches in my throat: Naomi sinks forward as realization hits her. She crawls to her knees and stands, slowly. Her gaze locks with mine and she spits out a single, harsh word.

"Hypocrite." I flinch and she steps past me. She takes a step towards Anna, their gazes locked.

Then, she spits.

On her face.

And walks away, the crowd parting like a veritable Red Sea before her.

* * *

**A/N: Just in case you were confused, in the Skins Novel, during a summer vacation in France, Emily fooled around in Bordeux while looking for Katie (who went missing because she realized her life was crap). She met up with this predatory bitch named Anna who brought her to Violet, this red-light lesbian exhibitionist night club—**_**every naughty thing in the world in that club, my dears. Every. Naughty. Thing. Note: Naked lesbians getting dirty on the 'dance' floor. Jesus. **_**Emily was **_**so **_**tempted to screw Anna and Danielle who put up this voyeur-tastic sex show BUT she kept her hands to herself because, really, who wants to make love to anyone else when you can make love to Naomi Campbell? But the saddest thing was she never confessed that night to Naomi, despite the latter's questions, doubts, and confusion. Basically, she lied when asked. She did. **

**Anyway, the next Chapter's done and will be up very soon, so keep reviewing, eh? Inspire me, hihi. **

**Also, I'd be glad to have you as a twitter buddyyy. Follow me, nonsequitur1416. I'll follow back and we'll have a grand time talking 'bout Skins Season Seven shit. Hihi. Which happens to be this March. Rumor has it.**

**I apologize if I've made you feels ache. But I will rescue you very soon from the abyss I've thrust you in. **

**Love you all,**

**Xx Guppy**


	7. Chapter 7

**The palpable amount of angst I've imbibed in this fic alone is cringe-worthy. It makes **_**my **_**feels hurt. You know how the summary for Skins Fire reads, 'Effy, and her new boss are together, yadda yadda, everything's fine, yadda yadda' –and then you read the next line—**

"_**Until tragedy strikes."**_

**FUCK. Who's tragedy? Because I know, sure as hell, it can't be Effy's. So, knowing the Skins writers, it'll probably be someone we really care about… Jesus, please don't let it be Naomily. **_**Please. **_

**Anyway, I've got great news—we've reached rock bottom. Yup. We've scraped the proverbial sea bed with the metaphorical anchor. And now, we begin the slow process of healing **_**both **_**their hearts. **

**I've got this all mapped out in my head, I hope you stick with me until then. ;) **

**Right-o. Cheers!**

* * *

My foot catches on a particularly huge crack on the sidewalk and the heel on my stiletto breaks with a resounding snap. _"Shit," _I hiss, bending down. It takes far too much time to remove the straps on my shoes. By the time I get them off, Naomi is already halfway across the street, arm flung out, ready to flag down a cab at a moment's notice.

"Naomi!" I cry. "Wait! Please, I can—I can—Naomi, please."

She sees me coming. She turns heel and walks away, heading towards Durham Park two blocks down. I trail a short ways behind her, my heart working into a frenetic rhythm. She stops beside the first bench; her hands come up to slide through her hair. She bends over, fingers laced behind her neck. Then, she swivels around, and my breath catches in my throat.

"_What else, Emily? What else don't I know? Anything else you want to keep from me?"_

"No!" I cry, frustrated. "No! I didn't do anything, Naomi. I didn't fucking _sleep _with her—"

"But you watched the slut work herself, right?" she snarls. "Watched it and liked it?"

I stare at her, numb. "I'm not stupid, Emily! I know what Paris' red light districts are full of, I fucking know what exhibitionist bars are. I really couldn't fucking care less that you didn't sleep with her. But you did go to one, you were a _patron. _That, in and of itself, is _shit, _Emily. It's shit. It's sick. _You're _sick."

"I would've told you!" I say, helplessly. "But you don't like those—"

"Like fuck I don't!" she nearly screams. "They're filthy places, Emily. The patrons are needy voyeurs who spend hours at a time watching partners pleasure each other on the _floor. _And you were one of them. That's shit, Emily. It's pathetic and disgusting."

She doubles over, her features twisting grotesquely. She twists the fabric at her stomach into a tight fist. She shudders as a spasm rolls through her. We both pause—her, in pain; I, in dubiety.

Another episode, I think. I take a step towards her, hand held out, placating. She swipes at me viciously, motioning for me to move away.

"I didn't do anything wrong, Naomi!" I shout, exasperated. "I didn't fuck her, I didn't cheat on you, like with—"

"Don't you _dare _throw this back at me," Naomi hisses, dangerously quiet. She stretches herself slowly to her full height, gauging the extent of her pain. "_If I had gone_, Emily, if I had gone to _Bristol's _red light district and paid to watch a slut work herself, would that be fine with you too?"

I grit my teeth, exasperated. "_No,_ but that's—"

"It's what?" she snaps.

"It's different!" I cry, my voice straining. "I _didn't _touch her, I didn't—I couldn't—" I run my fingers through my hair, de-tangling knots in my frustration. "I didn't cheat on you with her, Naomi. If that's what this all fucking about, I didn't. I get that you're so insecure these days that your suspicious paranoia is bordering on maniacal, but I didn't cheat. Not all of us are like you."

She flinches at that, and I regret my words as soon as I've said them. "And your pick-up at the club a week ago?" she says, quietly. "Didn't you sleep with him, too?"

I look away, at a loss for words. The silence stretches tautly before us, and a cold, sharp breeze begins to seep through my parka. I shiver when she speaks again, her voice impossibly soft.

_"What are we doing, Emily?" _she says, so quietly, I have to catch her lips moving to know that she said them at all. She is gazing fixedly at a point a good sixty feet to my left; she looks lost, again. She recovers after a while and walks toward me, closing the distance between us rapidly. She nudges me back, almost gently, until I stumble backward and the backs of my knees hit the edge of the park bench. I sit down, and she kneels in front of me, my hands warm in hers.

She looks down, not meeting my gaze, at our hands. We sit there quietly, for awhile, me on the bench, her on her haunches.

After a veritable century or so later, she speaks, and I find I do not want to hear what she has to say.

"You don't love me anymore," it is not a question.

"I don't know," I whisper, truthfully.

"You don't trust me anymore," it is not a question.

"I don't know," my voice quivers.

"We can't save this," she says softly, matter-of-factly.

I am crying.

"There's no point in trying," she brushes her thumb along my knuckles, twice, very gently.

I do not trust myself to speak.

The silence before us is this—thin, yet oppressively substantial.

She stands up, adjusts her jeans and sighs. I cannot look up at her: I train my eyes on the frayed ends of her left pant leg, memorizing every loose thread, every off-white discoloration. She presses a feather-light kiss to the top of my head.

"I wish you all the happiness in the world," her lips move against my hair. "I hope someday you'll find it in you to forgive me for not giving it to you."

She moves away.

The air she leaves behind is cold.

If this is the end, I do not want to feel it. I pull my legs up and tuck them against my body, curling inward.

Let me stay this way.

Maybe she'll come back.

And if she doesn't, we'll both deserve it—me, more than her.

* * *

I find I have fallen asleep on the park bench.

I am pleasantly surprised at finding myself unmolested.

I also find myself wondering, fleetingly, why I have woken up alone. I think, briefly, that Naomi has gone away temporarily to look for food. But last night comes back to me in a flurry of painful images and I have to stand up to ward off the flames flickering deep in my chest.

I make my way over to the sidewalk and lean against the lamp post by the curb. I stick out an arm as soon as a cab is in sight.

The driver is a little too perky this morning for my liking, and I find I am more than a little irked at his optimism. But I can't blame him. The world goes on turning for everyone else, though life seems to have stopped it for you.

I cut him off before he asks.

He nods in assent and we drive in silence.

Three stop lights later, I roll down the window and throw up violently on the stretch of sidewalk next to the cab.

I ignore the horrified glare he sends my way through the rearview mirror.

"It isn't your driving," I assure him, because it honestly isn't.

He doesn't look convinced.

* * *

"Holy shit," she whispers, terrified. "You look like _shit!"_

I send her a pointed glare, "Thanks, Katie. Go be a bitch some other time and open the door, yeah?"

Her face disappears from the window and a few seconds later, the lock bolt slides open. The door swings inward, and she stands there before me, looking appropriately stricken at the sight of her prodigal twin.

"Oh, Jesus," she hisses, catching sight of my spoiled parka. "Is that _vomit?"_

I move past her into the hallway, shrugging off my coat.

"Why are you here?" she asks cautiously, following me inside. "Where the fuck is Campbell?"

Her name comes like a blow. My brows crease together. I do not look back at her, "I don't know."

I hear her shifting behind me. I know my sister. Without looking at her, I _know_ that her arms are folded and her brow is arched. "You don't know?" she sounds incredulously skeptical.

"She should know where you are, _and _that you look like you got raped by a seasick homophobe—"

"Oh, because you'd know all about homophobes, wouldn't you?" I snap angrily, turning to her kitchen and pulling out a carton of orange juice from the pantry.

She strides forward and rips the carton from my fingers. "Talk to me like a sensible human being, you bitch. Now, what the fucking hell is going on? Is this some sort of tiff between you two again? Do I need to stick a heel up her arse this time?"

I glance at her and find genuine concern burning in her eyes; I swallow past the growing lump in my throat.

"No. There's no need to now," my hands are shaking, and I find myself suddenly wishing my sister had invested in a better boiler system. The room is fucking freezing. "What're you going on about?" she asks sharply, "What's wrong?"

"You don't—We're not—" My eyes are filling with tears and I do not like it: she notices and takes my arms in her hands. She gently swipes a finger over the moisture gathering beneath my eyes.

"It's over, Katie. We're done."

The minutes pass by in a faded blur, my face pressed against her shoulder as she supports me, weathering the full brunt of my sorrow. "I fucked us up, Katie," I gasp against her neck, my tears drenching her top. She rubs up and down my back briskly and nods.

"I couldn't forgive her; but I was the hypocrite. When we were at France, I went out with this girl and I flirted with her, and she brought me to this red light exhibitionist nightclub and watched her screw herself. Then, she started fucking someone in front of me, and I actually _wanted _to be a part of that—but I ran, Katie, _I swear!" _I pull back to look at her, beseeching her to understand, to believe me. She bites her lip, her brows knitting together.

My lip trembles, my breath leaves me in short spurts. "Last week, I picked someone at the club and went home with him."

I close my eyes: the memory is still fresh, and it is agonizingly painful. "I used him because I wanted to hurt her. I slept with him because I wanted _her._ Everything, everything is about _her! _A month ago, I found out she had peptic ulcer; what the fuck, Katie!" I am screaming, pulling away from her, crying. I can feel myself becoming hysterical; it is exhilaratingly frightening. "I've been with her for over a year, and I find this shit out just _now? _Did I know her at all? I slept with her the night before—the morning after, I find her blowing blood in our kitchen sink. I thought she was _dying, _Katie. _I thought she was dying, and that it was my entire fault. _Last night, at a party Bianca hosted, I met up with the French—"

"I know about that one, Bianca called me—" she waved a hand dismissively: I glare at her.

"And I let her flirt with me, and Naomi nearly killed her. She was so fucking fed up, she ran out. She asked me if I still loved her," I slump backward. "I told her I didn't know."

"Katie," I whisper, my voice rising. "Katie, I did. I loved her. I do, still, I think, but—Katie," I am breaking.

"We're done. We can't fix this, she said. I don't want, Katie, please—" my breathing is picking up, my heart is pounding double-time in the hollow of my chest. I grasp her by the arm.

"I don't want this to—" a short bark of hysterical laughter leaves my throat; it is almost immediately replaced by horrified sobbing. Suddenly, my world glares white and there is a ringing in my ears.

The world settles and collapses in itself until it contracts into a single thought: _pain. Lots of it. _

_ On my cheek._

I look up and her hand is drawn back, as if to hit me again. "If you start talking bat-shit crazy again, I swear to God, Ems. I will sack you straight to the loony bin." She is frightened of me, I see it in her eyes. I steady my breaths long enough to calm down. She reaches for me and embraces me tightly, "Emsy, stop it. Fuck's sake, stop it."

She rocks me back and forth in her arms, lulling me back to comfort, to lethargy, to forgetfulness.

"Stop it."

* * *

**I know things look bleak, but I swore I'd dredge you up out of the abyss I thrust you in and I intend to keep that promise. So, bear with me! I love you guys.**

**Leave me a note, yeah? A review? You know how they make my day; also—next chapter! FLUFF. Yes, you read right. FLUFF. It's time to balance the shit out.**

**Again, FLUFF. How? You: Review. Yes. **_**Yes. **_

_**- **_**Guppy**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: I owe you all an apology. I promised an update nearly a month ago, and it never came. Thing is, my laptop contracted a disease, the Trojan kind, and she's terminal. *sob* I'm not ready to say goodbye quite yet. **

**Anyway, this is marginally longer than the others, so I hope it's enough to tide you over until I can get my sweetheart fixed. Cheers! Hope you enjoy this one. Also, leave me a review, yeah? You know I love you.**

* * *

I haven't seen her in a week.

Katie's doing groceries for two, now; I've stayed with her ever since. All my things are still at the old flat, though. _She_ notices this soon enough, "D'you plan on taking your things back, Ems ? That's my fucking top you're wearing again, and I was looking for it earlier." She tips a basket of dirty laundry onto the open latch of the washing machine.

"I'll go with you," she offers briskly. "Keep her from fucking you up." I glance at her, bemused. "Thanks, Katie. But, no. I think I can hold her on my own." She snorts derisively, "Hold her on your own? If by _your own _you mean fuck-her-senseless-on-the-kitchen-floor, then yes, Emily, I'm pretty sure you could."

I shiver involuntarily, "Fuck off, Katie. We're not like that anymore." Her eyes soften, just a bit. "Emsy, its okay; I'll take you." I slump down beside the countertop, "Actually, I was thinking of going today."

She sits down beside me and nudges my thigh with her knee, "You're moving out for good, then?" My eyes water involuntarily and I take a deep, steadying breath to force the tears back into their ducts, "Yeah. For good."

She reaches up and swipes a car key on a filigree chain from the edge of the counter. She presses it into my palm and smiles, gently, carefully.

"Take it out, then. But take it back before ten, because fuck you, Emily, I need it for work tomorrow."

The house is deathly quiet—I've taken the liberty of letting myself in through the spare key she keeps under an old pair of Wellington boots propped up by the windowsill. Inside, the fading daylight has thrown shadows in great relief along the walls; it is both ominous and miserable.

She isn't home yet, that much is clear. I make my way up the stairs and push open the bedroom door, slowly. My stomach twists uncomfortably—the bed is made up.

On one side.

The left, however, the side I always slept on, is unmade: the sheets are still twisted, the pillow still holds a faint impression of my head—she left it the way _I _left it. As if any moment, I might come back.

The drawers and the wardrobe still contain my clothes; there is a brief moment of hesitation on my part, then I start folding them into my duffel bag. My fingers pause over a green sweater underneath my blouse; it isn't mine, though I'd borrowed it enough times to claim some semblance of possession over it. I bring it to my nose and inhale softly: my breath catches in my throat—it still smells of her. I bring the cloth to chafe gently across the skin of my cheek, savoring the feel of soft fabric. It is easy to pretend that it is her—her fingers tracing figures on my skin; her soft whisper brushing my ear—and so, I do.

The front door downstairs slams open brusquely, effectively shaking me out of my stupor.

I'd fallen asleep on her bed, the clock on the bedside table flashes the time in blinding red: 12:58 am. I sit up quickly and strain my ears to listen. There are footsteps shuffling, heavy feet climbing the staircase. "Shit," I hiss, panicked. I flail for a second, trying to find my slip-ons, wondering if I can fit into the closet to hide in temporarily. Something thuds heavily against the thin plaster of the wall beside me and I jump, frightened.

I fling open the closet doors and shove my duffel bag into its recesses; it amuses for a moment, the misogynistic humor of Fate, the pathetic cliché of it all—_hiding back in the closet, Emily?—_but right then, the bedroom door creaks open and I dive, headfirst into her clothes.

"_Fuck," _a rough voice growls, and through the blinds of her closet door I see her—_with someone. _She's unconscious, that much is clear. There's a man with her, supporting her as he stumbles into her bedroom. Her arms are around his neck, he's got a hand about her waist, and another along the back of her thigh. _"Damn it!" _he yelps quietly: his foot tangles with the green sweater I left on the surges forward to regain his balance, but his knee collides with the bed and Naomi rolls away from him, landing heavily on her bed. I have never seen her look so pissed, so completely wasted—there are black smears underneath her eyes, and her cheeks are flushed a blotchy red.

The man's face is obscured by a hood. I do not know who is, what his business carrying Naomi into her bedroom is. But there is something, _something, _in the way he looks at her from beside the bed that unsettles me, and tension begins to coil tight, little knots at the bottom of my gut. He stoops forward and rearranges her limbs onto the bed, pushing and nudging her until her arms and feet are well away from the edge. A shiver travels down my spine as I watch him take a step back and give her a cursory once-over. He ducks down again, towards her, and grunts as he tugs on the hem of her top.

My heart stills for a beat, and resumes its pace—hot, heavy, and frantic. My pulse thunders sycophantically at the back of my neck and my vision blurs in shock. _He's going to hurt her,_ I think desperately. _No. No. No._

He begins lifting her top off, the fabric riding upward until it exposes her pale stomach. I come to with a jolt, then, my temper flaring dangerously. In that moment, I wanted nothing more in the world than to hurt him, maim him, kill him. My hands begin fumbling about in the dark of the closet, searching for anything—_anything—_to bludgeon him with. He takes her by the arm and pulls her forward, her top slipping off her shoulders easily. My fingers find purchase then, and I wrap my fingers around the steel casing of the cabinet rod she'd broken off accidentally three months prior. He reaches down and snaps the button of her skirt open—

The closet door flies open and with a scream, I launch myself at his back, swinging the rod like a crowbar in a fight club. I catch him underneath the jaw and he cries out, flinging out an arm and throwing me to the ground. The impact winds me, my breath hitching in my throat, but I scramble to my feet and swing it again. This time, it clips him hard on the curve of his shoulder—he sinks to his knees and screams in agony. I raise the rod again, ready to bring it crashing down on his skull and hear the sickening crunch of his crown caving in, when he cries out in pain again.

"_EMILY! FUCKING STOP—EMILY!"_

My arms freeze and my entire body seizes up in shock. He leaps forward, taking advantage of my brief moment of hesitation and grabs my wrist. _"Let me go!" _I scream, "Fight me like a fucking man, you bastard!"

"Plenty of fire in there, little red. Can see why she loves you. You're just as passionate as she is. From the look of things though, a bit more, if you get me."

The words are garbled, and I realize he's speaking through a mouthful of blood. I calm down then, because I_know _that voice. And yet—

He nudges the tin wastebasket towards him with a foot and spits into it. He releases his grip on my wrist to pull back the hood of his jacket. I am not amused.

"Cook."

"'Ello, princess. Stalking Naomikins, then? Wait 'till she hears you've been hiding in closets again," he snickers heartily. "Can't tell her nuffink now, tho.' Wasted as fuck, the little blighter." He glances down at her prone form on the bed and scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. "She was sweating," he ventures hesitantly. "Profusely. And, she's tossed more than a couple times in the past hour alone. She's got some down her front. I was—changing her top, see? Wasn't going to hurt her. Promise."

"Cook, I—I know," I sigh, exhaustedly. "Sorry 'bout jumping you. Thought you were a rapist-con-burglar."

"'S'fine," he sniffs. "Would've done the same. Probably worse. Got me good, though." He smiles and swipes his hand along the corner of his mouth. Blood smears the skin there and he wipes it on his shirt front, leaving long, horrible, rust-colored stains.

"I'll, um, help myself to some ice, then, yeah? You go and—" he gestures toward Naomi awkwardly. I nod and he grins back, pushing past me to go back down to the kitchen. I nudge the door with a foot until it catches and clicks softly shut.

She's been crying: her mascara's left black smudges along her cheeks and her eyes are red-rimmed. She looks beautiful.

I watch as she shifts quietly in her sleep, frowning for a bit as she scratches an itch beneath her ear. I sit on the bed then, and take her hand. She's wearing nothing but her bra and her half-opened skirt and the image of her before me is not entirely conducive to conscious, innocent thought. Reaching down, I swipe the green sweater off the floor and help her put it on, slipping my hand underneath her top to unsnap the bra clasp.

She turns in my arms and presses her face to my neck—and _moans._

"_Emily?" _she slurs; she inhales, breathing in the scent on the skin of my throat. She skims the tip of her nose along my jaw languidly, her hands reaching underneath my top to run across my stomach, up my ribs. I gasp when her fingers reach my breasts, slipping underneath the under-wire of my bra to pinch a nipple. My hands stay where they are, around her waist, at the back of her neck.

It does not occur to me to stop her.

So, I do not.

"_Emily," _she breathes softly, tracing a finger across my breast, down to my stomach. She shifts closer and kisses me softly, carefully. She starts crying again as soon as she pulls back, and I find I do not want her tears. I swallow past the growing lump in my throat and kiss her back, a little more forcefully than I intended. She topples back onto the bed and more by instinct than anything else, really, I move on top of her. She moans softly into my mouth, her fingers slipping and sliding against my stomach, across my ribs, down my back. Her tongue curls around my own and flicks against my teeth.

The familiarity of it all—of the feel of her skin beneath me, her breath on my mouth—breaks me, and it hurts. She must feel it too, because soon enough, she pulls back and tucks her head into the crook of my neck. Her tears are hot and wet and uncomfortable against my skin, but I do not pull away.

"Emily," she whispers, pressing closer against me. Her arms wrap around my waist and tighten almost painfully. "I love you," she sighs.

I stiffen against her then, and move to pull away but she tenses and holds me tighter. "Don't go," she whimpers softly. I smell the alcohol on her breath and I know, _know_, that she wouldn't say anything at all if she'd been sober. But she isn't, and the fact remains that she _is, _and I remember Freddie that one summer evening in his shed, the night so humid my top had stuck to my back, sticky as fuck.

"_See, Ems ,"_ Freddie had laughed; his eyes bright, his voice slurred. _"The world is full of wankers, and the only people in the world worth listening to are children—" _He had nodded towards JJ who was gazing amazedly at Cook's poorly constructed beer-can-cannon,_ "—And the drunk."_ He'd nodded towards Cook then, and we shared a smile. It was the last thing he'd ever say to me, though I hadn't known it then.

Naomi tugs on my front and curls a little closer, burrowing her head against my shoulder. I couldn't move if I'd tried. "Stay," she says softly.

And so, I do.

* * *

It is the feel of the bed sheets' fabric chafing warmly against my cheek, and the tight grip of her arm about my waist that wakes me. I turn in her arms and I see her clearly for the first time: she's begun to stir, her eyes fluttering open dazedly. She smiles when she sees me and I find I do, too, and somehow, we meet at the middle_—_she leans forward when I do, I think; either way, our lips brush together. And it feels familiar and sad at the same time, and it's only when she kisses me a little harder that I realize why it feels wrong at all. I pull back, startled, and she has the grace to look properly ashamed.

"Hi," she murmurs shyly. Her eyes are hopeful and miserable all at once, and it hurts to look at her. I heave a sigh and turn to lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling of a bedroom that was once ours.

"We didn't do anything last night," I find myself frowning.

"I know."

"Just so you don't get the wrong idea."

"Okay."

She sits up and swings her legs off the bed, stumbling once or twice on the articles of shoes and clothing strewn across the floor. I watch as she goes about the room, picking up her belongings. She's halfway through pulling on a pair of socks when I venture to speak, my voice quietly subdued.

"Naomi."

She makes no move to indicate she's heard me, so I try again. It must give her a strange sense of nearly sadistic satisfaction to hear the helplessness in my voice again.

"Naomi," I say softly, hurt. "Please."

She pauses, her fingers twisting into the bed sheets and I have to wonder whether or not she's in pain again. She glances back at me from behind her shoulder, and holds out a hand wordlessly. I take it gratefully, eagerly, twining our fingers together; sighing softly when she tugs on my hand to pull me closer. I wrap her in an embrace, my arms about her shoulders, about her waist. I press my cheek against the small of her back and exhale through my. This particular morning feels like a regular one; one wherein I love her and rest confident in that sole fact.

I close my eyes when I feel her shudder: I know, _know _she's begun to cry again. I hold her tighter when she swipes a hand under her eyes, sniffling into the cuffs of her button-down.

"You hate me," she doesn't pose it as a question, she's stating what she _knows _to be true; but this time, this time I say otherwise. This time, I _mean_ otherwise.

"No," I say hastily. "I don't_—I just—_" I can't make any promises to her. Not right now. Not when I can't make any to myself. "I don't, I did_—_But, I don't. Naomi."

She's quiet for a good long while, then: "But you can't stand me. Not right now." I don't want to cry, but she's making it extremely difficult not to. She turns and touches her forehead to mine and I see the glistening paths her tears traced down her cheeks. I reach up and swipe a thumb over them gently; she tenses up then, and her gaze flickers upward to meet mine. More by impulse than anything really, our lips touch, once. Twice. Her mouth lingers on mine long after I've pulled back and I realize I'm crying too.

"I love you," she whispers. _I know, _I want to say. _I know. _But she speaks again. "But we can't stay like this, Ems. We can't be at each other's throats all the time, dancing around each other, afraid of each other." I look up at her, and my heart sinks, twists my insides inside out. There is no hope in eyes that won't meet mine. It angers me.

"What're you going on about, Naoms?" In spite of myself, I feel my features contort into a frown, desperately trying to stem the fears and the subsequent tears welling up inside me.

"We need time to be ourselves, Emily," she murmurs quietly, and I think briefly, _this is harder for her. _"I don't want you to hate me," she looks up, frightened, jaded.

"I don't," I protest, my temper flaring, but she shakes her head gently. She slips her hand from my back and takes my fingers, twines ours together in her lap.

"You do," she says it matter-of-factly. "You can't stand me, Ems. If we stay the way we are," she bites her lip and looks away from me. "You'll regret it. Regret me. And I don't want that, I want you_—_" her voice catches in her throat. "I want you to be happy."

"So you're fucking throwing me away, is that it? Giving me up? Am I not worth fucking fighting for, Naomi? Did you just fucking stop loving me, is that it?" I am breaking, seamless, undone. I wrench myself from her grasp and stumble to my feet. She reaches for me, but I lash out, and the back of my hand connects with the line of her jaw. She gets up anyway and pulls me against her, "Why are you trying to say goodbye?" I sob, falling limp in her arms. "I don't want to let go yet. I don't want you to go. Fix this. Make us fucking okay."

"I'm not saying goodbye," she cries and holds me tighter. "But I want you to be happy. I don't want us to fall apart over and over again. We need time, Emily. Maybe all we need is room to breathe. It doesn't mean I'll love you any less. It doesn't mean we can't _be." _She kisses me on the cheek and burrows her face into my neck. "We'll be okay. We'll be okay," It feels like she's convincing herself more than me.

When she pulls back, we see each other clearly: her eye make-up tracing dark streaks beneath her eyes, her eyes red-rimmed and raw, her lip quivering. "I love you," she presses her forehead against mine and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, they're solid. Substantial. A flickering flame.

"Can you understand that?"

I nod then, because I do. She embraces me again and my fingers scrabble against her back, seeking purchase, drawing her infinitely closer because she promised it wouldn't be our last_—_but her promises have come for nothing as of late.

When I reach the driveway, I turn back to look at her bedroom window. She's there, she sees me. She offers a watery smile and a tentative half-wave. I feel my lips curl into something resembling a smile; it should be enough for now. I get into the car and make it until the highway before I pull over onto the shoulder-Emergency Lane. I remember the look on her face right before I left and wondered why she looked so_—_and it comes, like a blow: she doesn't know I love her back. I never said so. And I want to turn around, past the opposing traffic to tell her so, but I can't. I can't. She should know. She should _know._

I grip the steering wheel and cry.

I feel better afterward.

* * *

**A/N: Oh, and about my final footnote A/N in the last chapter, and the fluff I promised you? Yeah, about that. I lied. But then, you knew that already, so. **


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

_Next._

I repeat the word over and over in my head, until the definition disconnects from the letters that form it; and I wonder, however briefly, how people ever managed to _invent _the word; whether or not the etymology of such a simple word had roots in Latin. It sounds _funny. _Say it enough times, and I swear it ceases to make sense, even to the most sensible of people.

Next.

_"Next," _his voice shakes me from my self-induced stupor and I step past the yellow marker on the floor. He gives me a cursory once-over and flicks open my passport. "Name?" he drawls, almost lazily.

"Fitch, Em—"

"_Given _name?"

"Er, Emily. Emily Fitch. Just the one," I smile nervously up at him. He hardly looks up, pausing every now and then to scratch his nose. His gaze flickers upward to meet mine, he heaves a great theatrical sigh.

"Purpose of travel?" he queries quietly, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

"Pleasure," I pause. "And family business, I suppose," I add as an afterthought, for good measure. He scribbles a few notes on a post-it and swivels back in his chair to tack it on a corkboard a ways back behind him. He slides back smoothly in front of me and taps the glass before me once. I glance down and crane my head to read the note he managed to slide through the fist-sized partition.

"Address of temporary residence abroad?" he asks impatiently, apparently annoyed at the fact that I couldn't read just as quickly upside-down. My heart leaps to my throat and nearly chokes my next words on the way out.

"Montgomery, upstate? In New York. Not the city-main," I amend hastily. "I'll be staying with an uncle; he works at a clinic in Ferndale. It's a good two hours from JFK; the airport," I say, rather hastily. "Not the—um—museum." He looks up at me then, and a flicker of a smile ghosts across his lips. He full-on smirks a moment later, but the gesture is kind and condescending, which is marginally better than the usual cold, snide sneers he sends other people's way.

"I don't think there's a museum in New York by the name JFK," he chuckles softly, flicking through the pages of my passport yet again. "If there is, though, you ought to ring me up and prove me wrong. Maybe they erected one up beside the MOMA in the six months I've been working here."

"Have you been here long?" I ask softly, genuinely curious. He frowns when he meets my gaze a beat later, but it relaxes just as quickly the moment he sighs.

"Nearly a year, I suppose. Bit of a major shift in duties, but I can manage well enough."

"Do you miss the homeland?" I might be pushing the proverbial bubble a bit too much here, what with the casual conversation in the way of all his standard-procedure queries, but I'm willing to take my chances. Anyway, it appears to relax him; which probably means I'm doing _something _right.

"A lot," he admits quietly, running a hand through his tousled salt-and-pepper buzz cut. He fiddles with the knot of his tie and folds a corner of a post-it down to mark a page on my passport. "Do you have any intention of living in the United States ?" It's a trick question—I just know it, in the way his eyes narrow suspiciously, just a bit. I bite my lip inconspicuously and shake my head.

"My entire livelihood is here, back at home. All my friends, my family—I can't just up and leave them now, can I?"

"They'll be easy to keep in touch with, what with today's technology and whatnots. It isn't that hard to make new friends either, much less get a new job. Higher paying ones, at that."

"I'm happy with everything I've got back here at home; I honestly don't have any intention of like, migrating abroad. Not at this point in time. I just need to get away for a bit," I bite my lip and swallow with difficulty. "I just need to breathe. But I'll definitely be coming back."

He examines me through the glass partition for a good long while, studying my face as intently as a coroner ascertaining a patient's mortality in the morgue. Having worked here for awhile, maybe that's all we looked like to him: living corpses, corporate puppets, dragged every which-way by, like, Fate. With a proper capital 'F' and all it entails; a higher sentient being with a taste for flagrant dramatics and realistic theatrics. He sighs through his teeth a couple seconds later and flicks open the cap on his ink pad. He scribbles a few notes on two separate sheets of paper and slides both inside my passport. He doesn't give it back. The thought makes my heart leap.

"You'll get your visa in a couple weeks, 'round about, one or two at the latest," he shakes his head once and smiles up at me, tight-lipped. But I am ecstatic.

"Thank you," I supply breathlessly, sincerely. I swipe all my documents off the counter and into my bag and nearly skip all the way out of the American embassy.

* * *

"Surprise!"

She jumps from her seat on the couch and shakes her head dubiously. "What? What's happened?" I shrug off my coat and tuck the carrier bags a little tighter against my chest.

"I got my visa," I bite my lip and smile hesitantly. "So, I got us a little something to celebrate." Katie stares at me for a beat or two, mouth agape. She composes herself just as quickly though, and bounds up to hug me.

"Oh," she breathes. "That's _so _great, Ems!" her cheerfulness sounds a bit too forced. It puts me off for a second before I remember I brought dinner with me.

"Marks and Spencer does Chicken Provencal. I thought we'd eat in for a change," I hold out the cream cord handles and hand her the bag. She runs a finger along the embossed, glossy green surface and studies my face.

"Toss it over," she orders abruptly, holding a hand out. I raise a brow, completely nonplussed.

"What?"

"You heard me. Don't play dumb, Emily. Hand over the bloody thing."

I fidget in place, looking everywhere but at her. My jumper's slung across the arm rest and I make my way over to it. I feel her eyes on my back as I yank off my sweater-vest and pull on my lime green jumper. I hate that it looks exactly like _hers, _but I don't dwell on it a moment longer than necessary. She lets me pull off my trousers and settle into a pair of leggings and woolen socks before she fires away again.

"Don't make me ask again, bitch. Toss me the fucking bottle. Don't do this, Em," she adds at the end, softer. Pleading.

I acquiesce. Not because I have to, but because I want to.

I push past her and stick my hand inside the duffel bag at the end of the dining table. She takes the bottle from me and examines it in her hands.

"Pinot Grigio?" she asks skeptically. "You dossed for comfort, and the best you could come up with was Pinot Grigio? And it's not even the_classy _kind."

"Fuck off, Katie. I didn't want to get hung, okay? I just wanted us to celebrate. Loosen up. Enjoy something, for a change."

"Sorry," she mumbles quietly, and almost sounds like she is. "I just—I don't want you drinking yourself to death, yeah? I get it. I do. But don't be like that, Emsy. It isn't worth it."

"I never said she was! So, fuck off," I snap. I turn from her and pull open drawers and cabinet doors, grabbing plates and glasses and silverware haphazardly. I feel bad for treating her less than she deserves; she's been nothing but supportive in the months succeeding the break. But I feel even worse for shutting down and feeling like shit every time _she_ comes up in a conversation. Hate that it still makes me cry, even after everything that's happened. Hate that I miss her when she's not there. Hate that I miss her at all.

Hate _her._

I screw my eyes shut and attempt to stem the flow of tears threatening to spill over. My knuckles turn white from gripping the granite countertop too hard. She comes around then, and gently uncurls my fingers, threading hers through them to stop them from clenching. She tucks her chin against the curve of my shoulder and drapes her other arm across my chest, holding me tighter against her.

"I wasn't talking about her, you know. I'm sorry, though," she says softly. It's the sincere sympathy in her voice that does me in. She holds me closer as I lift a hand and press the heels of my palms against my eyes. We stay quiet for awhile; she rocks back and forth, side-to-side on her heels, swaying me gently in her arms.

"You'll be okay," she murmers softly, reassuringly.

It sounds like a promise.

* * *

We eat in nearly substantial silence, punctuated from time to time by the clink of cutlery and the dull tinkle of glass. She washes up afterwards and lets me troop over to the living room for a cup of coffee. I flick open the telly and pull my legs in under me, wrapping my arms around a cushion. Time does nothing to dull the pain—six months fly by and feel like days in comparison. I feel like being sick every time I try to picture her face and realize with a startling jolt that I've forgotten what color her eyes are; what her voice sounds like.

I shouldn't forget. I shouldn't have forgotten. It angers me to no end; the frustration is tearing me apart. I have no photos to remember her by; no videos to recall what she might've sounded like. The sole photo on my phone is blurred and grainy. The most I can make out is an arm around my shoulders, half her head turned to kiss my ear. My mouth open in a soundless laugh; the point of her left shoulder off-camera, her other arm superimposed. Probably to take the shot.

I don't look at it anymore. My stomach clenches whenever I do, and my heart drops.

I can't see her eyes.

"Ooh," Katie exclaims, slipping into the room. She dries her hands on a flannel and tosses it back onto the counter. "EastEnders! Alice was in this one, wasn't she? Fuck, I haven't seen an episode in ages!" She sits down next to me and takes a sip of my coffee. She makes little noises every now and then, when something dramatic happens onscreen, which is basically—very nearly—every other minute. She sniffs in disdain when I pull out a box of Lucky Strike cigarettes and light up. I'm halfway through my third when she reaches over me and flicks off the telly. In one swift motion, she swings her legs off the couch and yanks the fag from my lips, stubbing it out on the ashtray by the coffee table.

"Hey!" I protest, sitting up angrily. "What the fuck? I was enjoying that!" I quickly shake out another fag from the box, but her hands are faster. She takes it from me and sets it on the table wordlessly.

"Can we talk?" she asks quietly, turning in her seat to look at me. "We don't do that anymore. Every time we try to, you shut down and shut up. It's not fucking healthy anymore. So, talk."

"There's nothing to talk about," I say sternly, mock exasperated. "You just won't get the fuck off my back. Won't leave me alone. I'm fine, Katie. I'm doing fine."

"No, you're not!" she cries angrily, scrambling to her feet. "You think I can't hear you crying through the three-inch plaster walls, Emily? Think I don't see you throw in her jumper in the wash, see you sleep in it every night? Take my car out to drive to her place? See you sit on the kerb three houses down from hers? It's _pathetic_, Emily. You have no idea how pathetic you look."

"Fuck off!" I shout, standing up and shoving her backwards roughly. "It's my life, and I live it the way I want to. Whether or not you give head or tail about it is of no fucking concern to me. Shove off!" I push past her and make for my room. She grabs me by the cuff of my jumper and yanks me back. I swivel in place until we stand nearly face-to-face with each other, the tips of our noses brushing. I've never seen her look so angry in all my life.

"You don't fucking tellme to shove off, bitch," she growls, deathly quiet. "When were you going to tell me about these?" she shoves a packet of papers against my chest roughly. My hands come up to cradle the on instinct. I hiss a curse when I realize what they are.

"So, you're leaving. Month's end. Leaving everyone back here, including_me_," she sounds pained. Hurt. I feel a twinge of guilt, but I quickly push it back down.

"When has it become socially accepted to go through anyone else's belongings? Didn't know you were a closet-case klepto, Kay," I snarl, wrenching my arm away from her grasp. I hear it a second before I feel it: she slaps me, back-handed, across my cheek so hard I feel a welt forming almost immediately.

"What is wrong with you?" she whispers, horrified. "You're not my sister. I don't know who you are anymore."

"Just because I'm not your doormat any longer, doesn't mean I'm not me, Kay," I bite back, forcing down my tears.

"No," she shakes her head slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on me. "It's not that. You were stronger than this. Strong enough to tell me, tell everyone, including mom, what you wanted. Who you were. Who you loved. But, look at you, Em," she trails off, distraught. Her voice breaking. "You're every bit as pathetic as you were when this all started. The Emily I couldn't respect, because she didn't demand any. And now, you're running away again. Real mature-like. Instead of growing up and facing it, head-on. That's all you've been doing these past few months, Emily. Running the fuck away. Can't you see no one's chasing after you?"

"It's not like that," I cry feebly, a tear tracing down my cheek. "I just—I know—I can fix this, Katie. I can. I just need time. _She_ needs time. We'll fix it. We'll be okay again."

"Do you hear yourself? Do you have any idea how pathetic you sound right now? Who're you trying to convince, Emily? Me? Her? Yourself? Grow _up_!" she shouts, flicking me sharply on the forehead. I flinch and take a step back.

"I'm still me, Katie. I'm still Emily," I sob, wiping my eyes on the sleeves of my jumper.

"Are you?"

She sounds so defeated, so genuinely lost. She sits back down on the sofa and pulls on her boots, strapping them above the ankle. She steps past me and reaches for the coat she slung across the countertop a while back.

"Katie," I call out helplessly, following her through the hallway. "Katie," I bite my lip, feeling a fresh onslaught of tears resurface. "I love her, Katie."

"No, you_ need_ her. It's not the same thing."

She doesn't glance back: she pulls the door open and disappears through it.

* * *

"Excuse me, I was wondering if you had a copy left? Your website said your branch was out-of-stock, but I just wanted to make sure," my voice is quiet, hesitant. The clerk behind the Inquiries counter glances at me dubiously before craning his head to read the slip of paper I'd passed over. His brows crease together for a beat, then, he smiles in relief and slips off his stool.

"You're in luck. I had a reserve-copy, but nobody came to pick it up. Is he popular, these days? Kerouac?" the clerk asks conversationally, leading me through back-lit shelves towards the end of the store.

"Not really," I scratch my nose, suddenly awkward. "I need a paper done, for credit. I just need a point of comparison, between him and Ginsberg. I'm not really a fan of Kerouac."

He turns back to look at me and grins, "Neither am I. My wife's crazy about him, though. She loves Proust and Eliot; bit of Neruda, too, I think. You familiar with him? Oh," he stops quite suddenly and runs a finger down the spines on the shelf beside him. "That's funny," he frowns. "I remember putting it back here this afternoon. Hang on, miss. Let me check behind the counter again, I might've put it away," he rubs the back of his neck apologetically and walks back to the counter.

These are books no one is familiar with; books no one finds interesting enough to want. Books no one understands. I feel a tug of sympathy towards them and gently caress their faded, dusty spines.

"Don't read that one," a voice says abruptly. "Complete waste of time. Save yourself the quid." Her voice is different; I close my eyes briefly and drink it in—the sound of her. The feel of her. She is much too close. Her voice is thick; she has a cold, I imagine. If I turn my head a fraction of an inch to the right, I can just make out the red tip of her nose, peeking out from beneath a red knit scarf.

My back is to her, still. She shuffles about behind me, browsing casually through the stock on shelf. I should leave. It would be prudent. Safe. Appropriate. But, I've long since known that I am anything but. I turn to her, then, and take her in for the first time in God-knows-how-long. She gives a start, and her eyes widen in recognition. She tenses up immediately and takes a tentative step backward.

"Emily," she finds her voice a beat later. She sniffles into her scarf and promptly sneezes. We don't say anything after that; I fidget restlessly in place, trying uselessly to unstick my tongue from my palate. "Your hair," she gestures to me awkwardly. "I didn't recognize you, because, your hair. You dyed it?"

"It's always been like this," it comes out cracked and wavering; I clear my throat resolutely. "I felt, like, trying something new for a change. I didn't dye it after it started fading."

"It suits you," she says softly, her eyes drifting towards my hair. She makes as if to touch it, but thinks better of it. Settles for winding her woven bracelet 'round her wrist to occupy herself. "I just," she begins with difficulty. She reaches down and picks a paperback off the baskets on the floor. "I just came to pick this up," she holds it up and shrugs.

"Midnight reading?" I ask, a smile curling the corners of my mouth. She bites her lip and snorts derisively.

"Not really. Requirements aren't—"

"Oh," the clerk comes around behind her, startled. "Miss Campbell! I didn't think you'd drop by anytime soon, I had to pull it out; I can only hold reserve-stock for three days," he says. He glances behind her to look at me, "Sorry, miss. That's the last copy, I'm afraid. I can refer you to our other branches, if you'd like?"

Naomi turns to me, suddenly curious. "You were looking for it as well, then?" She waves the paperback in the air, "This your last copy? You're quite sure?" she asks the sales clerk. He nods slowly, hesitantly. "Well," she frowns for a bit and hands it over to him. "I'll check out now, shall I?" The clerk glances at me before nodding back at her. Naomi turns back to me and cocks her head in his direction, wordlessly gesturing me to follow her.

"£15.99," he says cheerily. "Shall I have it wrapped?"

Naomi whistles through her teeth, "Robbing me blind, you are. Yes please, though, John." She hands over a fistful of notes and taps her fingers against the countertop as he stuffs it unceremoniously into a paper bag. He hands it to her and reaches over to staple her receipt onto it, but she waves him off. "Thank you," she says instead, and reaches for the slip of paper dangling from his grasp.

We walk out of the store together, then. Naomi stops underneath the edge of the awning and unzips her handbag. She takes out a folding umbrella and draws it open; the sky overhead is a dull, pasty gray. I didn't anticipate rain when I went out this morning, so I hadn't brought an umbrella. She turns to me and smiles. It hits me, then, squarely in the chest—the way the left corner of her mouth lifts higher than the other, a faux-smirk; I remember with a jolt that her eyes are cobalt-gray, and it comforts me.

"Here," she hands me the paper bag. I stare at her outstretched hand completely nonplussed. "Emily," she says again, and waves the bag around a bit. "Go on, take it. It isn't polite to refuse gifts, you know." She smiles a little wider and pushes the bag towards me. My fingers close about the handle and our hands touch. I repress a shiver.

"You didn't have to," I say quietly, looking up at her. "You'd had it reserved and everything. I could've looked for a copy elsewhere."

She shrugs and pulls her scarf down, tucks it under her chin. "Well, now you don't need to. Besides," she sniffs and sneezes again. "It wasn't really a priority in the first place. I just wanted an excuse to step out for a bit." She shifts a little stiffly and ruffles her umbrella. Coughs. "Well, I should—I should probably get going," she says suddenly. "Wouldn't want to keep you. It's lovely, seeing you again, Emily." She says sincerely, her gaze soft and warm.

"Don't," my outburst surprises us both. I quickly stammer out an explanation, "I mean, don't go, yet. We can have coffee, if you'd like? I haven't had lunch yet, either."

She glances away and bites her lip; lapses into thought. "I don't think that'd be a good idea, Emily." She says after a while, and glances back at me apologetically.

My heart plummets, sinks down to my knees, but I swallow and splutter on anyway. "It doesn't have to be anything, really," I find myself saying. "I just want to say thank you, for this," I hold up the paper bag. She looks at me steadily and mulls it over for a minute. Nods.

"Great," I breathe. "I mean, I know I this place down the road. A little ways past Harrowdale." Her eyes widen in disbelief.

"Bit far, don't you think?"

"It's charming," I argue plaintively.

She stifles a laugh, "Oh, I don't doubt it, Fitch." She beckons me closer to her, "Come here." I walk over to her and she pulls me underneath the umbrella. "Shall we?"

I reach for the frayed end of her scarf dangling by her waist, and nod.

* * *

**I know, I know. It's been, like, four months since my last update. I'm real sorry 'bout that, really I am. So many things have been going on lately, and I didn't know how, when, or where to squeeze an update. Hope you guys understand. Thanks for sticking 'round, though. I promise you, we are far from over. So, stay right where you are, beautiful.**

**Also, Skins Fire. Oh, Skins Fire.**

**I won't even go there. What with everything lately, I don't think I can bring myself to, just yet. I swear now, though, that I'll update frequently. I've found access in the upper levels of my uni's library, and the facilities are just brilliant, so I have absolutely no excuses. This one's for all of you who stuck around and prodded and prompted me endlessly on Twitter and through PM's; I loved reading your messages. Thanks, guys. You know who you are. ;)**

**Oh, and while I'm at it, watch out for a new Naomily one-shot, coming soon! It's lengthy as fuck, so I hope you enjoy _that. _Also, I'll get updates on Bastille and Eight Ways as soon as I can. **

**Leave me a little something, yeah? Just to let me know you dropped by? The good Lord knows how much I love it when you do. **

**- Guppy x**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

* * *

She trips gracelessly on the porch steps, arms flailing for purchase. Her fingertips manage to grip the edge of the door jamb miraculously, and she knows it—she glances upward and breathes an uncharacteristic prayer of gratitude.

"I saw nothing," I bite my lip to stifle a laugh when she elbows me in the ribs, none too gently. We wind up at a table by the window, the taffeta blinds drawn halfway. The silence that stretches between us is stiflingly, breathlessly uncomfortable. I reach for the menu card by her hand with trembling fingers. I give it a cursory once-over for the sake of show—I already know what I want; know everything they have; had it seared into me during the long, sleepless nights I used to spend here trying to gather my thoughts, the remnants of me, pre-Love Ball and post-Sophia.

"I honestly have no idea what to get," she admits sheepishly, craning her head to the side to read the print on the underside of the card. "I think you should order for me instead."

"The Imperial chicken-mushroom wrap's always a winner," I nod sagely and hand her the menu. "You'd like it, very up-your-street."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks mock-suspiciously, her eyes narrowing.

"The chicken's allegedly free-range, and the bread is gluten, bromate, sugar _and _wheat-free," I lace my fingers underneath my chin and meet her gaze steadily, ignoring the way my heart plummets to my stomach when she stares at me so openly; so blankly.

She blinks, then, and her eyes drop back down. "You remembered," she says softly, and pushes the card away resolutely. "They had these open-faced sandwiches at Blackfriars during the fair last month. I went with mum, for fun. I was halfway through my second when mum, she turns to me and says, with a look of abject horror on her face, 'You _do _realize they're called California-raisin _wheat_-bread for a reason?' You can only imagine my revulsion." She shakes her head bemusedly when I laugh.

"Ignorance is bliss, and all that," I grin. I raise my hand and the waiter catches my eye. He drifts over to our table and turns promptly to Naomi, his gaze lingering a little longer than necessary. I clear my throat pointedly, ignoring the doleful look he sends my way. "Two orders of Imperial chicken, please—" I lean forward and squint, "—Jason. And two glasses of water."

"It's James, miss," he prompts, slightly miffed. "Is that all—?"

"Isn't that what she said?" Naomi asks, glancing up at him innocently. He frowns for a beat, mulls it over.

"I'll be right back in about, seven to ten minutes," he mumbles, disheartened, and shuffles away. Naomi throws me a look and I smile in lieu of a reply.

Some things don't change.

* * *

She enjoys the wrap, as much as I thought she would and more. I look away when she brings her fingers to her lips—trying to suppress the surge of emotion swelling up inside me at the thought of her tongue on them; the reality I'm in, and the fact that I don't have the right to look at her anymore when she does. It is too much, and too little, all at once.

I push my plate towards her when she reaches forward for a handful of my chips. "Have to hand it to you, Emily," she mumbles contentedly through a mouthful. "You really know your stuff."

"So pleased you enjoyed it," I lean back and trace patterns on the condensation of my glass. "D'you want another? Or can I interest you in their wide-array of desserts?"

"I'd rather not," she pulls a face and groans. "They'll go right down to my hips. Can't have that now, can we?" We don't say anything after that, because there's nothing to say; I don't have the right to comment on her weight, or her diet anymore, either; can't assure her she has fuck-all to worry about when it comes to her figure, because she's never had difficulty maintaining it her entire life. There is much I can't do anymore—can't reach for her fingers across the table, feel them underneath my skin: assurance of her tangibility; of this reality. My sanity.

Jason-James comes back to the table to clear away our plates and glasses. Naomi pushes her glass towards him wordlessly and he squints at her surreptitiously, awed by her silence, her indifference.

"Can I get you anything else?" he asks her hesitantly. Her gaze flickers towards him in askance. He dismisses himself quickly, wiping down the table sloppily in his haste to leave. Her shoulders sag when he walks away, and her gaze falls on the table before her. Her features tighten; her jaw pulling taut, her brow creasing. She flexes her fingers, once, twice. Sighs.

"I miss you," she says matter-of-factly; no heaviness, no trace of bitterness, no overly-dramatic display of waterworks. She laces her fingers underneath her chin, leans on her knuckles when she looks out the window. "Say something," she says after a while, when my silence has grown substantial in its length.

"What else is there to say?" I find myself saying. I marvel at the steadiness in my voice. "You know I did, too. You know I do." I hesitate, my fingers pulling at the fabric of the tablecloth. "Does that change anything?"

She closes her eyes, exhales through her teeth. Takes to worrying her bottom lip between them. She doesn't look at me; to be honest, I don't think I could hold her gaze any longer if she did, either. "Not right now, no," she sounds almost sad, but it's said with a resolute finality that silences whatever questions might've surfaced on my part. "But, I miss you," she says again, and it sounds like she's holding a private conversation with herself more than anything—I feel like an opportunistic, eavesdropping voyeur at the wrong place, at the wrong time. "When I was at Blackfriars with mum, we had to shack up with a friend of hers from uni. She had kids—three—and it was difficult for her, I think. She was a single parent. Her flat," her voice wavered. She cleared her throat and swallowed, not without difficulty. "Her flat, it didn't have—it wasn't that _big, _you know? There were only about three rooms, and a kitchen. A bathroom. That was it, really. She needed the other bedroom for her boys, so I had to share a room with her daughter."

I stiffen, not quite sure where this is going. My heart is thrumming a dull ache of a rhythm, constant and altogether reassuring in its familiarity. She glances over at me, silently pleading with me to understand. The salt-shaker is dented, its cap askew. I reach over to screw it on tighter.

"She was _four, _Emily," she closes her eyes and tilts her head back. Her voice cracks. She sags forward and presses the heel of her palms to her eyes. "Said I was the sister she never had; made me play with her—she had this tea set. It was porcelain, from her aunt in Islington, she said. She had this doll-house that came up to my waist. But she didn't have any proper dolls in them, says they can't afford any right now. So, she had—she had these _cut-outs, _like _paper _dolls, that she made herself out of cardboard and crayon. And I said I'd help her make more. We were there, on the floor, and I was cutting stuff up for her, and her brother comes in the room. He's older than her by a year. Calls her stupid, says they aren't real dolls at all. She starts crying, and I didn't want her to. I don't know what to do when people cry. But he's sorry when she does, cry, I mean. So, he sits by me and starts cutting stuff, too. And, Emily," she whimpers softly. "Emily she looked just like you, and her brother. Her brother was—Emily, it was so easy to pretend. To imagine. To believe. That for a while—" she breaks off, unable to continue. She sniffles; the sound is dampened by the cacophony of voices drifting from the other patrons. Jason-James glances over at our table, swivels away quickly when he sees me looking.

"—That they were ours," I finish softly; a sob escapes from her throat. I lean forward and take her in: her slumped figure; her thin, drooping shoulders. "I want you to be happy. I want that for you," I whisper, not quite knowing how to pacify her.

"I want it _with _you," she wipes her eyes with a sleeve, reaches over the table to hold my hand. The touch of her skin, there, grounds me. "Oh, Emily," she says, and her face contracts all over again. She shudders. I lean over and brush the back of my hand across her cheek, trace a thumb along the line of her jaw. She closes her eyes at the touch. I take her face in my hands, tilt her chin up; force her to look at me.

"I'm going away." She freezes. Frowns. Her eyes grow wild, confused. She chokes on a slew of questions; I press my thumb gently against her lips to silence her. "To New York," I continue, and I know, _know, _I have to make this quick. For both our sakes. "I _need _to," I wonder briefly why I sound so adamant, so convincing. Why I desperately want her to understand. "I found this job—it's an internship, at the Post. For photography. I need to go. At least six months—"

"Six months," she echoes softly. She leans back in her seat and turns away from me. She looks out the window, her face perfectly stoic. "Why?" she asks, simply. Quietly. I open my mouth to reiterate my feeble reasons, but I know she deserves so much more than a shadow of the truth; nothing comes out, however, and she grows irate. _"Why?" _she all but snarls, swivelling back to glare at me.

"I—"

"This isn't fair, Emily! This isn't _fucking _fair! Why would you—? How could you—?" she cries, pushing her chair back abruptly. She doesn't get up from her seat though, grips the edge of the table instead. "Why would you do this and not—" her voice cracks and she turns to glare at me, her eyes piercing me through and through; her temper scares me, but it isn't quite as painful as the anger in her gaze, the disgusted hatred belying the tears there. My stomach twists and plummets to match my breath, hitching in gasps.

"I need to, for me," I wring my hands together in my lap in my agitation, pick a scab on my ring finger until it bleeds. "I need—For us—"

"For us?" she laughs, a short harsh bark. She looks so lost, so helpless; so confused. Hurt. "Don't fucking lie to me. Temporary? Six months is a pack-load of bullshit and you know it," she hisses. "I guess I wasn't important enough, then, for you to remember in your little list of people-to-tell? They don't have postcards in New York, I suppose? Were you going to send a greeting card instead? 'At my flat. Fixed my couch by the electric fire today, remembered us together on one just like it back at home. Miss you, kiss.'" she bites gratingly; her jaw set, teeth clenched. "I didn't want to believe Katie—"

"Katie?" I cry in disbelief, jolting forward in my seat. "Katie told you?"

"She tried to. I didn't want to believe her; said you weren't like that," the color rises in her cheeks; in the dull light seeping through the blinds, her skin is pale underneath the flush growing on her neck. I brush away the sudden desire to lean forward, press a kiss to the warm pulse there. "You," she closes her eyes, takes a deep, shuddering breath to steady herself. "You disappointed me, Emily. I thought you were above that. You said I had to be brave, once. Why can't you take a leaf out of your fucking book, stop being a filthy hypocrite? Stop running away!" Just as quickly, a sudden flash of anger chokes me and I find myself breathless.

"What do you know about me?" I growl quietly. "You have no right to make assumptions about me, about what I am, what I'm like. You weren't there. You are but a facet of a multitude of things I had to put up with, these past few months. You don't know what it was like. You weren't there. Once upon a time, you said you would be. Always. But, everyone disappoints you in the end. Leaves you in pieces when you break. You don't know about anything that happened. I'd like to remind _you, _Naomi, that _you _ruined everything for us—so don't go around trying to project your feelings of shame and inadequacy onto me, make _me _out to be the villain, because I _deserve _to be happy!" My palm slaps the table abruptly and she flinches away from me. "Stop being such a child. Why can't I _try _to be happy, Naomi?" I whisper, thoroughly defeated. "Why can't you let me be happy?"

"You're being so selfish, so unfair," tears pool in her eyes, but she wipes them away quickly on the cuff of her coat. We grow quiet, then—the voices of the other dining patrons and Jason-James' bussing at a table a window away permeates the air around us. "It'll change things between us. You know it will. We can't be the same."

"Isn't that what we need, right now?" I feel thoroughly drained; I sag back into my seat, run my palms down my cheeks slowly, relishing the feel of skin dragging against skin.

"Is that what you want?" it's said so suddenly my head whips back up to look at her. She takes the lid off the Styrofoam cup carefully and blows across the liquid's surface before taking a tentative sip. Her hands are trembling so bad they upset the drink—she swears out loud when it scalds her fingers. For a beat, I waver. Katie was _wrong; _she _needs _me, too.

I reach for her, try to still her fingers wringing wildly in her pain. She yanks her hand back, settles for fixing her watery gaze on the salt-shaker she upended in her thrashing. "What do you want me to say?" I trace patterns on the salt-bed along the table.

"I want you to say you'll try to be brave for me again; try to fix this, fix _us _without having to leave. Let _me _fix this. I want you to tell me you need me to ask you to stay, to beg you to—that you'll stay, if I do. Emily, I'd get on my knees; you know I would," she is desperate, unravelling before my eyes. She shifts in her seat, edges forward and a sudden stab of panic courses through me at the very thought of her prostrate on the floor. The very notion is undignified and humiliating. For her. For me. I scoot forward quickly and push her back, keep her on her seat, my hand pressing none-too-gently against the space below her ribs.

"All these months, Naomi, I've been nothing _but _brave—for myself, for your sake. But, I'm only human," a tear escapes, slides down my cheek. Her gaze flickers to it, watches it trace a path down my face. "You know I can't," my lip quivers and my heart sinks so low inside me I feel it stirring faintly at the bottom of my very being, past my very core—irretrievably lost.

She sits up straighter, then. Drags her breath out in a lengthy rush; the line of her jaw pulled painfully taut. Her throat bobs, once or twice, like she's chewing on her tongue. She sighs, and it sounds like Atlas' might've when Zeus first made him shoulder the world as an arbitrary burden—made to carry a weight she does not want, does not need. Then, she nods. Her eyes flicker back to me, then, she stands up. Her chair scrapes back gracelessly, the noise offends Jason-James two tables down—he glares at her reproachfully, narrows his eyes to slits in my direction. I couldn't find myself caring any lesser if I'd tried.

She slings her coat across her shoulders, clasps it at the throat. My feet have turned to lead blocks for the time being; my involuntary paralysis does not faze her, however—she makes her way over to my side of the table, stoops until her face is level with mine. She is close. Much too close; I can make out the tears framing her lashes. All too soon, she moves away, turns her head. She presses a chaste kiss to the corner of my mouth and it feels so final; a farewell. My throat closes up when she moves away, brushes her lips against my ear.

I don't look behind me to glance back at her, even when the bell above the door tinkles—I know: without needing to see, that she's gone; and that Katie, in her infinite wisdom, is irrefutably correct at all times—that _her _love for me surpassed mine in the end, in that she could let _me_ go after all, when holding onto her became too painful for _me. _

Outside, the sky has darkened considerably; the dull-gray shimmer of lead and slate.

It starts to rain.

* * *

"You basically broke up twice," she snorts, takes a long pull on her cigarette. "I didn't even think that was possible."

"No," I press my forehead against the windowpane, turn my head so my cheek touches the cool glass. "We just—decided some things are best left as they are. You can't fix cracks, Bianca. You can try to; make them seem less noticeable, but in the end, _you _know that it's there. And it'll bother to you endlessly, knowing that no matter what you tried to do to make it less obvious, it still _exists. _You can't fix cracks."

"She broke you," Bianca says matter-of-factly, stubs her cigarette out against the sill by my elbow. "Completely get it, darling. You remember Daniel? _Jesus, _that boy—fulfilling, I'll give you that. But, a complete fucking _wanker! _ I remember this one cast party we were at and—"

"You think I did the right thing?" I swivel in my seat to look at her properly and she must see something in my eyes because she stops mid-sentence to take me in. Her face softens and she drops to her knees before me gracefully, takes my hands in both of hers, sets them down on my lap, plays with my fingers.

"You deserve so much better, sweetie. You deserve a love that is as dignified as it is noble and true. A love that doesn't drain you dry; a love that gives back twice as much as it takes, and not the other way around. You don't _need _her, Emily. You don't need anyone. If you ever fall in love again, it'll be because you _want _to," she smiles reassuringly, strokes a thumb over my knuckles.

"I've had enough for a while, I think," I say softly, my hand reaching up to touch my throat. "I just need to be me for a while."

"'_Want _to be me', you mean," she corrects, not unkindly. "Promise me you won't think about this so much. Promise me you won't go looking for her," she says seriously, her lips set.

I blink, "Why would I go looking for her?"

She heaves a great theatrical sigh, "Because you always do. Because you can't help it. It won't do you any good, sweetie. Please, say you won't." She squeezes my fingers tightly, warns me with her eyes. I laugh at the irony of it all and nod. She's pleased by my lack of resistance, I can tell.

"_Fantastic," _she breathes ecstatically. "One less thing you'll pack for the trip, and all." She skips away brightly, arms swinging haphazardly, every which way. She flounces over to my shelf and starts peering at the photographs, the tarnished frames. "You bringing any of these, sweetheart? An album? Your baby photos?"

I shrug indifferently, "I suppose. It's not like I can just _leave _them here, anyway. That would be the weird. For the tenant, I mean." I watch curiously as she plucks a photo from an album, and another, and another, until she holds them out to me all spread-out, like a fan.

"What about these?" she smiles a little sadly, flutters them in front of my face. I can barely make-out an arm about my shoulders; an off-shot head thrown back in violent fits of laughter; my lips against a neck. Something stirs inside me, below me, beneath me—within and without of me. I push it away just as quickly, press its ugly head down before it has a chance to crane and rear.

"I don't know," I say honestly. I glance away when she holds them out to me—I really do _not _want to have to deal with this so soon. She's holding a photo frame with the other hand, though, and she drops it when I don't take the photos back. It slips from her fingers and we both watch in horror as the edge of the wooden frame shatters against the carpeted floor, the glass flying away from the rib. The photo it housed is pinned underneath its shattered casing; remnants and fragments and shards—of glass. Of memory.

Bianca cries out in alarm, screams out a long-winded curse. "_Fuck! Jesus, _Emily! I am so sorry!" She looks so upset, it disheartens _me _even further. "I'm so sorry! Where'd it come from?" She stoops to finger a long shrapnel, turns it over in her fist to examine the flowers painted in fading-pink paint.

"There were these kids I volunteered to look after, at the social-action quarter. Naomi," I clear my throat, cough once. "She came with me. The kids made it for us, somewhere to put the photo of all of us in." She claps a hand over her mouth in horror; a dark-red flush creeping up her throat, to her ears.

"Oh, my God, I didn't know! Oh, Emily, please—I'm so sorry! I'll fix it! I'll get it fixed! The glass is cracked, but I think it'll be fine after—I don't _know—_epoxy, or something?" She wrings her hands together agitatedly and starts picking bits and pieces off the floor. I sigh, know her cause is lost, even if the intentions were well.

"It's okay, Bia," I sigh. "Really."

"No, it's not!" she cries a little too passionately, a little too forcefully. "This obviously meant a lot to you! I'll get I fixed!"

"You can't fix it," I say with finality, thoroughly exasperated at her momentary lapses of logical coherence. Bit annoyed, really, at her childish persistence.

"We can get a new one, then," she says resolutely. She stands up from the floor and tips her cupped hands over and onto the counter-top. She sifts through the fragments with a finger and frowns, "Let me get my coat." She brushes past me and bounds up the staircase. I stoop down and pick the photo up gingerly with a thumb and forefinger. _She _smiles up at me through her fringe, half her shoulder off-shot, two kids hanging off her shoulders, another dangling at her arm. Her chin's tucked against the crook of my neck. There are arms around my waist, but they are altogether too small and too scrawny to be mistaken for hers. Sure enough, there is a bob of blonde hiding behind me. I smile, then. The memories are fond, and they come easily like this. It is easy to remember her like this.

Bianca. She may be onto something, that one.

Some things can't be mended. But, some thing's—_new? _ _Better? Different? Entirely alike, and yet altogether different in essence?_

We could start with that, maybe. Something else, for a change.

For all our sakes.

* * *

**That. That was lengthy, that was. Jesus, achievement unlocked.**

**I refuse to acknowledge the existence of Skins Fire; Freud's defense mechanisms are doing wonders for me, at the moment. He called it Repression and Denial; I like to think of it as Arbitrary Ignorance and Bliss. **

**Quick poll: in the event, that say, someone had to get harmed and or killed off, who would you be _least _likely be sorry to see, well, go? That is to say, if I were to, oh, I don't know, decide to take someone out of the picture, or something, who would it be? Naomi or Emily?**

**Leave your answers in a comment, let's take them into consideration — very, very soon.**

***insert sporadic burst of maniacal laughter here***

**- Guppy x**


End file.
